


What If...?

by AntiKryptonite



Category: Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
Genre: Alternate Takes, F/M, What could have happened, a what if for every season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-08-25 03:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiKryptonite/pseuds/AntiKryptonite
Summary: What if...something happened to change the story we all know? What if...different decisions were made? What if...we had an excuse to explore more of that wonderful relationship between Clark Kent and Lois Lane? Four seasons, four chapters, four could-have-beens.





	1. What If...He Bled?

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many moments in this show I love that could become MOMENTS, and though I don't have time to explore them ALL, here's one for each season. I hope you enjoy!

There’s blood. Red and thick and swirling through water to create a kaleidoscopic vision of horror. The twin gunshots still echo through the air and she’s afraid, so afraid that he’s gone and there’s nothing she can do, nothing she can write, nothing she can strongarm into her way of thinking. No way to save him.

He stares and stares and stares. At the blood on his hands. At the blood dying his shirt from blue to red (Superman colors, Superman ideals, but Superman’s not here, too far away, back in Metropolis, safe and sound), spreading outward in a distorted circle from the wound piercing his chest.

He stares, and Trask falls. A splash, another splash of red, liquid on liquid, and the madman fades away, submerged and gone, his blood the last to disappear beneath the surface.

He stares, and Martha Kent screams.

“Clark! Clark!”

“Oh, my boy!” Jonathan exclaims.

Jimmy’s talking, words and words and words, spiraling, diffusing in the coppery air, and the sheriff’s voice joins his, radios and codes and requests for an ambulance now, now, out at the Kent farm, it’s bad, so bad, get here quick as you can.

He stares, and so does she. Because Clark’s bleeding. He’s hurt. He’s wounded, pierced to the quick right in the front yard of his childhood home, the one that made him light and happy and unburdened, the one he tried to convince her to love, the one that’s been growing on her (the one now covered in this bad moment, this tragedy that will overpower everything he tried to talk her into and show her, tainting and poisoning until she has only _this_ memory).

The entire moment is frozen, suspended in amber, saved in every particular to be reopened at a later date when something useful can come of it. She’s swathed in sludge, her movements restricted, every beat of her heart sluggish, timed to the delayed realization in Clark’s eyes.

And then he looks up. And he sees her.

His eyes crash into hers.

And he falls.

* * *

Lois is the one who drags him from the pond. Jimmy’s there to help pull him to shore. Martha bends and covers the wound with shaking hands. Jonathan props Clark’s head up against his own shoulder.

There’s a swirling tornado of motion, busyness and plans and arrivals, departures, EMTs and police, bodybags and crime scene tape. None of it matters, not next to Clark dipping in and out of consciousness in Jonathan’s arms. Lois wants to hold his hand, wants to take his flesh and stitch it back together, wants to go back in time to that moment he stared at the blood pooling across the pad of his thumb, and instead of being dismissive, she wants to reach out to heal the papercut. To show that his blood matters, it affects her, he should never, never, never spill more of it than that tiny ordinary cut.

“Mom,” Clark slurs. His head lolls, and Lois has to look away. He should never look this weak. He should never _be_ this weak. He’s a hick, yes, of course, and not really experienced yet, but oh, he has never been frail. He’s always been strong and carefree and unaffected and she wants that Clark back.

“Oh, Clark, honey, it’s going to be okay,” Martha promises him. Her hands (mother’s hands) are everywhere, on his brow, his cheek, his inexpertly bandaged wound, his hair. Lois’s eyes follow the movements, a vicarious witness.

“Mom,” he says, more insistently, “I threw it in the pond. We’re too close.”

“Oh,” she says, and she unbends enough to share a look with Jonathan.

“Right, son.” Jonathan nods, and then, suddenly, he’s moving. Standing and pulling and commanding Jimmy to help him prop Clark up between them.

For the first time since that gunshot rang through her ears (it still echoes, resounds, reverberates, a constant ricochet in the confines of her skull), Lois speaks.

“What are you doing? You can’t move him. The ambulance—”

“I’ll talk to them,” Martha says. “It’ll probably be Hal. I’ll explain it to him.”

“Yep,” Jonathan says, and then he and Jimmy are pulling, tugging, carrying Clark up the porch stairs and into the house, across the few steps of the living room, to the couch where they deposit him as carefully as they can. Jimmy steps back, pale and shaken (and she should help him, Lois thinks, should try to reassure him, but she doesn’t, she _can’t_ , she has no reassurance to spare) while Jonathan pulls a blanket free of the back of the couch and covers Clark with it.

“There you are, son,” he says. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. Rachel’s got everyone outside and your mom’s explaining things to Hal. Don’t you worry about anything.”

She thinks he’s unconscious, submerged beneath the pain of this unnecessary move his parents insisted on, but then he stirs. He tips his head against the couch cushion until he is looking at her. Her and Jimmy.

“Please,” he whispers, “please don’t hate me. I’ll…I’ll explain when I can.”

“Don’t worry, Clark,” Jonathan says firmly. “They’re your friends. They’ll understand.”

“Understand what?” Lois demands. Jimmy puts his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off (it doesn’t feel like Clark’s, that warm weight of steady reassurance and earnest comfort). “What’s going on? Why aren’t we getting him to a hospital?”

Nobody answers her, but they don’t need to.

A little while later (when bones regrow and muscles meld one to another and flesh stitches back together), Lois knows _exactly_ what they were talking about.

* * *

The red still stains his denim shirt. There’s still blood on Lois’s damp dress, and on his mother’s hands, and against his father’s shoulder, and smeared against Jimmy’s side. Stains, clear and vibrant and nauseating.

Lois scrubs and scrubs at her hands in the bathroom, strips off the dress (the one that made Clark smile so soft and sweet and admiring) and lets it puddle in the trashcan under the sink. Her hands are raw, her fingers red, but it’s not enough, so she slips into the shower and scrubs all over. Scrubs until the feel of Clark’s blood (both his lies and his truths) is only a memory. A tangible memory that refuses to fade, is not ephemeral at all, but envelops every thought in her head.

The water’s cold by the time she steps out of the shower and dresses in the clothes she pulls from her bag. A skirt and a blouse and a jacket, armor against the softness and the kindness offered by the Kents. She is Lois Lane, investigative reporter and Kerth award winner and one-day Pulitzer Prize winner.

(She’s a fool. She’s a dupe. She’s an _idiot_.)

When she emerges from the bathroom, she’s ready for whatever they have prepared to stop her. A solder with weapons raised and adrenaline flooding her system and no one to fight.

Because there’s no one there. No Jonathan to talk her down. No Martha to sympathize with her and deflect her. No Jimmy to commiserate with and verify that this is really happening. No Clark to lie and lie and lie with that sincere look in his eyes and that warmth in his hugs and that innocence in his manner.

Nobody. Nothing.

Lois walks downstairs to the living room.

Still no one.

Then she hears it, a quiet murmur of voices (secrets, so many secrets all around her, and she didn’t see it because she didn’t want to be here and she was distracted by bigger concerns and he’s never let her see who he really is). Lois follows the trail of whispers until she finds them all in the kitchen.

Clark’s sitting at the table. Clark who had a bullet hole through his chest a couple hours before. Clark who bled and bled until Lois thought all she’d ever see was his blood staining her entire life. Clark who’s fine. Who’s well. Who has no bullet hole in his chest anymore, no blood spilling out, no wound, nothing but the husk of his deception still on exhibit for her.

Those stupid glasses are still there, though. It figures that the bullet hole would disappear but the glasses remain constant.

Martha and Jonathan, arrayed around their son, look up at her immediately. Jimmy, standing over by the sink with a lost expression on his face, stares at her as if looking for a sign, a hint of what they’re supposed to do now.

Clark, though…Clark doesn’t look up at all. Just stares down at his hands. (Stares and stares, as if he’s still in as much danger, as much pain, now as when that bullet tore through his flesh.)

Nobody speaks. The whispers, the plans (the secrets), are all hushed away and hidden now that she has entered the room. Her veins are throbbing, her blood simmering, a hum reverberating through her bones. Liars, all of them, deceivers and con artists, and they did it all with smiles on their faces and friendship in their hands and kindness layered through all their words.

Liars, and she’s furious, so angry, so betrayed, so awfully, terribly _infuriated_ that the man she was beginning to think she could trust is the biggest liar of them all.

She’s furious.

And she understands.

( _Please don’t hate me._ )

She knows why they lied. She knows why he never confided in her. She knows why he won’t look at her. Why his shoulders are slumped and his head is bowed and his eyes are so carefully averted (hiding, always hiding, from her, from the world, maybe even from himself).

The biggest secret the world has ever known. The superhero from the stars here at her feet. Vulnerable. Helpless.

Fragile.

“Clark,” she says, and just that word, that name (that knife she chooses so carefully) makes him flinch inward.

But for all that he is a liar, he has never been a coward.

Slowly, so slowly she wonders if he is still hurt and aching, he unbends. Straightens. Stands. Turns to face her. Meets her gaze.

He is neutral. Impassive. A blank expression he probably thinks won’t pressure her.

But for all that he carries the world’s greatest secret, Clark is a terrible liar.

Beneath the neutrality he tries for, she sees the remorse layering his bones with lead. Behind his impassiveness, she can sense his despair and his desperation. His blank expression gives away all his shattered hopes and dented dreams.

“Clark,” she says again (she named him once, for the world, now she does so again, for the few here in this room, for the ones who matter most, for herself).

The bullet hole is gone, the blood cleaned up, the EMTs and police and coroner long gone, but it is only now, with his name on her lips, that he is truly healed.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” he says when they walk side by side in a field of harvested yellow against a backdrop of green trees. “This isn’t the way I wanted you to find out.”

“Oh, so you _wanted_ me to find out?” she asks. Blunt, maybe, but she doesn’t know any other way to be. Subtlety (the diplomacy Clark exudes) has always been a foreign concept.

“Well…I wanted to tell you. One day.” His left hand comes up to massage at his opposite shoulder, just over where Trask’s bullet could have so easily torn his life away from him (either by blood or by truth). “I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it from you forever.”

“That’s generous of you,” she comments, and this is more than bluntness, this is acerbity, but she can’t help it. It _hurts_ , to know that this man she thought was honest and open and only what she already saw in him was lying to her and hiding things from her and _excluding_ her.

“Lois, I meant, I knew you’d figure it out.” He’s so earnest (but then, he always has been, and she was still blindsided when that wound of his closed up as if by magic), so intent on her, the sun haloing him and gilding his dark hair silver and gold. “I knew it was risky from the beginning, but…I was just so tired of never being able to stay in one place. I wanted…I wanted to try. I wanted to see if there was any way I could ever…”

“Ever what?” she asks, because there’s a lot of ways _she_ could end that sentence, but she fervently wants to know what _he’ll_ say.

He stares at her, hesitant and hopeful all at once, Clark and Superman all blurred together into this one desire.

“Belong,” he whispers in the tone of voice of someone voicing their deepest, most private wish. Which is exactly what he is doing; she doesn’t need to peel back any layers to expose that truth. “I wanted to see if there was anywhere I could belong. A place to call my own. People who’d accept me and my parents for the secret we’ve had to keep.”

Carefully, Lois reaches up and takes his glasses. He makes one aborted movement, as if to stop her, but then freezes. Lets her strip him of his mask (his armor; his disguise; his comforting illusion). Watches with bated breath as she examines the glasses from every angle. Which is only a delaying tactic, of course, because when she is done looking at them, she has to look up and see the man who’s left.

The man under the red and blue suit.

The man when the glasses come off.

Clark Kent and Superman and whoever he is in between.

But when she finally looks up, when she stares at the man revealed by blood and bullet and bravery, she sees…Clark.

The man who tried to shake her hand when Perry first introduced them. The man who playfully but firmly insisted on being a partner rather than a lackey. The man who sent her to the sewage plant and who’s saved her life.

Her friend. Her partner.

Everything he was before (and everything he still can be, hidden like treasures in their future).

“Clark,” she says again. Recognizes anew.

And he smiles.

* * *

She never asks what he says to Jimmy. She knows they had their own conversation, sitting on the couch and talking in hushed tones. She doesn’t think she needs to know what they said, though. Jimmy’s a loyal friend who’s able to bear her temper and her aloofness and her crazy demands and still come out relatively sane and willing to work with her. Clark and his super secret is nothing compared to all that.

It surprises her, when he chooses to fly back on the plane with her and Jimmy, but Clark says it’s safer for him to seem as normal as possible (and he _is_ more experienced at keeping his secret). It doesn’t surprise her that Jonathan and Martha hug her and Jimmy as well as their son, or that they hold him for a long, long moment in the safety of their joint embrace, or that they are slow in drawing away, or that they offer him their love freely and unconditionally.

When he finally pulls away from them, Lois slides her hand through his. Reassurance for him, a promise to Martha and Jonathan. She might still feel a fizz of anger when she remembers certain things about these past months, but Clark is…well, he’s Clark, and she’ll protect him. She’ll look after him.

She won’t betray him.

* * *

He’s nervous on the plane, even bracketed by her and Jimmy.

“You fly all the time,” Lois tells him, amused despite herself.

“Not like this!” Clark hisses.

“Didn’t you tell those people at the airport a couple weeks ago that flying was the safest way to travel?” Jimmy asks with a sly grin.

Clark shifts uncomfortably. “Statistically speaking.”

“So…?” Lois asks expectantly.

“Your sympathy astounds me,” he grumbles, and Jimmy laughs.

“Come on, CK, it’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have to tease you about something like this. You’re crazy if you think I’m not going to take advantage of it.”

“I’ll remember this,” Clark promises, but he doesn’t fool Lois. His eyes are glowing, a smile curved in the corners of his mouth, happiness keeping him afloat a quarter of an inch above his seat.

 _CK_ from Jimmy is as much a gift as _Clark_ is from Lois, and they all know it.

For all that he must have feared, Clark Kent was not subsumed by Superman. Here, sent forth by his parents, enclosed on either side by Lois and by Jimmy, Clark Kent has a place.

He belongs.

* * *

Perry covers their story with red ink and brings it out to them. Clark’s a nervous wreck, massaging the nonexistent bullet hole, unable to sit still, his eyes on the floor.

“Unbelievable!” Perry judges the whole thing, but then extracts a name for the meteor rock and takes the story to print.

Clark’s body sags against his desk. There’s a quip on her tongue, her brain already set to tease him, but something about the enormity of his relief touches her.

When his left hand reaches up to worry over his shoulder, Lois catches his hand.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

She’s lost count of how many times he’s walked her home from the Daily Planet. Still, there’s something almost surreal about tonight. Knowing that the man walking beside her can fly, can lift her and the Daily Planet building besides…it stands in stark contrast to his ambling walk and the warmth of his hand so lightly grazing the small of her back.

Strength held back and transformed into gentleness (that’s who, what, Clark Kent is, the secret behind everything else).

“I’ll never tell,” she promises the dusk air. A soft whisper she knows he could catch a mile away. “I promise, Clark.”

“I never thought you would,” he replies. Calm. Supportive. Friendly.

Friendly like Clark. Friendly like Superman. Friendly somewhere in between (not as hopeful as Clark; not as aloof as Superman).

“I can help,” she offers. “When you have to duck away. I can cover for you.”

His hand brushes against hers. “Thank you.” A chuckle covers the heaviness of the moment. “I don’t always come up with the best excuses.”

“I’ll come up with better.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Somehow they’re in front of her apartment already (she’d have sworn they’d only been walking for a few moments). He pauses, waiting for her to start up the stairs to the cold building. Lois pauses, too, not wanting to leave him. She reaches up to touch the area of his chest where he keeps unconsciously rubbing.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she can’t help asking.

“I’m okay,” he says (it sounds like a promise). “The Kryptonite’s worn off and the wound’s long gone.”

“Then why do you keep touching it?” she asks even though it’s _her_ hand covering the memory of that piercing hole.

“I guess…” He’s wide-eyed, nervous, trembling, even, beneath her hand. The darkness cloaks his form and yet his every feature is outlined in light, glowing and stark against the falling night. “I guess because for a little while, I thought it stole everything I ever wanted.”

“And what’s that?” she asks.

(She knows. Or rather, she _hopes_.)

But Clark hesitates. “Lois, I…I think you know that I’ve always…I’ve always wanted…or _hoped_ that…you and I…”

“I know,” she whispers.

“But Superman’s the one who you… I can’t be him all the time. I can’t live up to that ideal every minute of every day. I mean, I try, but…I’m just…just _me_.”

She steps just a bit closer to him. “That’s pretty good. Clark Kent’s always been a guy I trust, even when I didn’t know why.”

“But Clark works, and eats, and takes days off, and watches sports, and makes bad jokes. Superman…he’s more real than I ever thought he’d be, but he’s—“

“He’s you,” she interjects. “Superman is the hero, the icon, the beacon that he is because he’s _you_. Because _Clark Kent_ believes in truth and justice and wants to help and is a friend. He’s you. You’re him.”

Clark lets out a chuckle that sounds almost pained. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Does it have to be complicated?” she asks, and takes another step forward.

His breath audibly catches in his throat. He goes still, like prey who’s finally realized a predator has singled him out. “Lois, I…”

“Clark, you could have died.” She takes in a sharp, juddering breath. “You could have died. When I heard that gunshot, I saw this future without you in it. And it was awful. It was lonely, and cold, and bleak, and so, so _empty_. But you didn’t die. You’re alive. You’re okay. You’re still here. And that…that’s more important than what name you call yourself or how you _think_ this should have gone.”

“Lois.” There’s a question in his voice, as if he’s only now realized how serious she is about this (as if he didn’t really think she was having the same conversation he was).

“Clark, I want you in my life. I don’t know exactly how, or where this will go, but I know that I don’t want to regret missing what I could have had. I don’t ever want to envision a life like the one I saw in Trask’s bullet.”

“I want you in my life too,” he says (clear unvarnished truth, stark and unashamed, bold and triumphant like gates swinging wide on a prison, and it drowns out and replaces and erases the ricocheting echo of that awful gunshot).

He stares. At her. At her hand on his chest. At her body coming closer. He stares and stares, but his hand wraps securely around her waist and his breath is heated against her cheek.

She stares, too, until her eyes flutter shut and their lips brush.

And she falls.

(But it’s okay: he catches her.

He will always catch her.)


	2. What If...He Confessed?

He seems nervous, not quite finishing his sentences, doing some strange dance between staring at her and avoiding her eyes, and is he talking to the picture of them? Weird. He’s the one who suggested breakfast, when she’d been all too willing to cling ever closer to him, when her hands had stroked his hair and played with where his glasses curled around his ears, when their kisses had gone deeper and longer than ever before and she felt like they were flying. He’d pulled away, breathless and shaking, and told her breakfast was a good idea, it was _important_ , he’d come pick her up and then…

Well, then she’d kissed him again. He was too far away, talking when she’d come to his place with her speech and her therapy-approved decision and her desire for them to move forward, and she wasn’t sure how _he_ was able to think so clearly when she was swimming in oceans of sensation and emotion (all for _him_ ). Talking wasn’t on the agenda, so she kissed him, and he melted against her, strong and solid and unwavering but so malleable in her hands, so pliable against her lips…so abruptly stiff when she managed to gasp between kisses that she’d love to have breakfast with him.

So here they are. Kisses and touches and the joint desire for this to go somewhere new, somewhere _more_ , but he’d walked her home like always (kissed her on her doorstep until they backed up against her door and she almost pulled him inside, would have if she could have convinced herself he wouldn’t regret it) and they’d slept apart, but now they’re together again, doors unlocked and layers casually undone and so much past between them, so much future now unfurling ahead of them.

And he’s nervous.

And she’s giddy.

He’s hers. All the worries and the missteps and the fears and the late night deliberations (her almost-wedding and his packed boxes), nearly two years of fights and feuds and competitions, of dinners and stories and hugs and disguise kisses that never felt very fake. All of it, and here they are. She can still taste him on her lips, can still feel the gloss of his hair beneath her fingers, can still imagine all the delicious possibilities she’d glimpsed in the shine of his eyes last night.

Lois and Clark. Not just Lane and Kent, not anymore, but _Lois and Clark_. More. Different. Exclusive.

She wants to kiss him again. In fact, if he’d put down that picture frame (and she didn’t love him, in that picture, or rather, she didn’t _know_ she loved him, so she needs a new picture, a better picture, one where she loves him as much as he deserves), she’d kiss him right now.

“Clark,” she says, hoping that will wake him up.

She reaches out to caress his cheek, hoping that will jar him free of his nervousness.

She steps closer, tilts her head up toward him, hoping he will take the invitation.

“Lois,” he says, and she loves it. She loves the sound of her name on his lips, loves that he says it so often, so consistently, so _tenderly_ , and she cannot wait any longer. It’s been eight hours since they last kissed.

Bridging the last space between them, she brushes the picture frame out of his hands (hears it clatter, muffled, against the couch and then forgets all about it), slides her hand around his neck, and kisses him. He pauses for just a split second before he wraps one arm around her and splays a hand (so, _so_ gently) across her cheek, and kisses her back.

Yes. _This_. This is what they should have been doing from the moment he knocked on her door. This is what they should do instead of breakfast. Come to think of it, Perry will probably turn a blind eye if they don’t go in today.

Lois wraps her arms around him completely. She wants to be closer, closer, so close there is no breaking them apart, no tearing them asunder, no room for more insecurities or bad decisions or any Scardinos or Maysons or Luthors. Just them. Just him and her and the warmth of him sinking down deep, deep into her bones and the smell of him (air and wind and _home_ ) enclosing her in a private atmosphere.

He kisses her as if he’s been drowning all night. As if she’s air and water and sunlight. He kisses her as if nothing in all of existence could ever make him unwrap his arm from around her waist, and yet still, for all the tightness of his hold, his other hand is soft, light, so tentative she wants to blink away tears.

“Lois,” he gasps into her mouth, and if she thought she liked the way he said her name before, it is nothing compared to this.

She smiles, alight with happiness, with relief, with _joy_ , and the smile breaks their kiss. Panting, his breath stuttering across her cheeks like intangible caresses, Clark leans his forehead against hers.

“I love you,” he whispers. His eyes are closed (squeezed tight, as if he is afraid to see her reaction to this declaration). “Lois, I love you so much.”

“Clark…” She wants him to feel as cherished as she does, so she loosens her hold on him just enough to slide her hand down his cheek. The way he leans into it without opening his eyes makes her heart feel too big and too small all at once, a tiny thing not nearly large enough for the emotion spilling out of it, so swollen and large it strains against the confines of her breastbone.

“I have to tell you something,” he says.

And he opens his eyes.

And Lois goes cold.

She thought he was giddy and awash in desire and happy (even if a bit nervous) to confess his love to her for the second time. She thought he was feeling everything she is.

She was wrong.

Because Clark is not giddy. He’s not happy. He’s not lost to the feelings invoked by her skin against his and her lips on his.

He’s terrified.

* * *

Lois sits down. It hurts, to separate herself so wholly from his touch, but she is suddenly sure this is something better taken sitting down.

“Oh, boy,” she says (to cover her stabbing fear). “This isn’t good.”

“What?” He stares (as if it is she who’s stabbed him). “Why would you say that?”

“What is it?” she demands. “Clark, I thought we were…I thought we’d decided to move on. To _be_ together.”

He sinks down onto the coffee table, perched right in front of her, his head bowed. She hates it. He looks like a supplicant. Like a penitent.

Like he’s confessing something horrible.

“Lois, I want that, more than anything.” He sounds sincere. Earnest. _Wistful_. It does nothing to reassure her. “But to have that future, I…I have to tell you something. And I was always going to tell you, but it never seemed like the right time, or if it did, I…I hesitated and the moment was always gone. But I _want_ you to know. I _want_ us to be able to survive this.”

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, more than anything, she wants Clark gone. Out of the apartment, back in his own. She wants time to rewind. She wants to be getting up way too early because her excitement won’t let her sleep. She wants to be messing with her hair and changing her outfit three times because even though she won’t admit it, she’s thinking about the way Clark’s hand slid over her stomach (and just a bit higher, just a touch more daring) and she wants to feel that again. She wants him to come here, and to smile at her, and to kiss her as soon as he sees her, and to never give a second look to that picture frame currently jutting against her spine.

“Clark,” she says abruptly.

Because that’s something her mother said, when they found her dad kissing Mrs. Belcanto.

_We can’t survive this_.

And that’s one thing she and Clark should never have to worry about. Not the affairs, not the cheating, not the lying, and certainly not _surviving_ anything when their bond has already withstood more than any other in her entire life.

(She can’t lose him. She can’t go back to a life like the one she lived for those twenty-four hours after Clyde Barrow and three bullets.)

“Lois, I can’t keep this from you anymore. I’m afraid…I’m afraid you’ll already hate me. I can’t wait until I know you’ll never do anything _but_ hate me.”

“Then tell me,” she says (she dares him) even though she’s desperately hoping the phone will ring or the fire alarm will sound or _something_. “Tell me whatever’s so important you think it will push us apart even though you promised me—you _promised_ me, Clark—that we’d give this an honest try.”

“I _am_!” he cries. “I can’t _not_ tell you this, not anymore. Not now.”

“Clark,” and now she’s begging, but she almost ( _almost_ ) doesn’t even care, “I don’t want anything to come between us.”

She doesn’t know why, but that’s when his nerves fall away. That’s when he goes bold and resolute and unflinching. And she knows (she knows because Clark, when he gets that look in his eyes and that set to his jaw, is the only one she cannot persuade around to her way of thinking) that there is no stopping him. Whatever he’s decided to say is going to happen.

She only got one perfect night of happiness before it all shatters at her touch.

“I don’t either,” he says. “So, Lois, I have to tell you this, so that it can never come between us again.”

He takes her hands. Something inside her urges her to snatch them back, to pull away, to protect herself as much as she can, but she’s numb. Unmoving. Her hands are limp and unresponsive in his.

“You know how…how I’m always ducking away with lame excuses? There _is_ a reason for that, a good one. You see, I’m…I’m…”

She stares straight ahead. Her heart will puncture against the sharpness of her breastbone if she moves. Her lungs will deflate and wither and disintegrate if she meets his eyes. So she stares straight ahead and says nothing and lets their relationship die around them.

Clark clears his throat and tries again. This time, he actually finishes his sentence.

“I’m Superman.”

He finished his sentence, but it makes no sense at all. Gibberish. Jargon. Words that don’t go together at all.

“Lois?” He peers up at her. She can feel the weight of his anxious gaze, but only as if it’s far away. “Lois, say something.”

“You’re…you’re Superman.”

“Yes.” He’s breathless, tremulous.

Afraid.

And she? She’s nothing.

* * *

They don’t eat breakfast.

Later, that’s what she remembers. She finds herself thinking it often. They were supposed to have breakfast together, the first in their new relationship, but they don’t.

It’s not the first time Superman has come between them.

(But is it the last?)

Clark asks her to say something, tells her to yell at him, tries to tease her about being mad, and finally begs her to do anything at all. She tries (even now, she can’t be completely unaffected by him), but she is empty. Drained. Stunned blank and polite.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she tells him over and over again until finally she just asks him to leave.

“Lois,” he says at the door. He sways, as if he means to kiss her, and Lois backs up two steps.

She may as well have hit him. With Kryptonite.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and then he’s gone.

She thinks she should feel relieved, but she doesn’t. Instead, she feels…alone.

(She remembers that morning, an hour before, when she kissed him and he fell into her as if he never wanted to come up for air. He was saying goodbye, she realizes now. A last kiss to keep him when he lost her. Three little words as a final confession to explain the revelation he was about to unveil.)

Work slips her mind so that she never even calls Perry. Either he plans to ambush her later or Clark covered for her, because he never calls. She’s given free reign to pace her apartment endlessly, roving circles that take her back through countless moments, endless deceptions, dual betrayals.

No wonder Superman picked her out immediately, spoke to her and singled her out from the crowd and flew her back to the Daily Planet. To her _desk_ , even, but she’d completely missed that subtlety. Of course he noticed her and thought she was special enough to come to Clark’s (to _his_ ) apartment and make sure she knew he cared. Of course he cared—Clark cared.

Clark cared from their first meeting, the one she barely remembers. Clark cared since he laughed at her in an elevator and listened to her tearful confessions and kept all her secrets locked up tight in the fortress of his heart. Clark came to see her when Superman was auctioned off, he cared about the blood on her temple when Superman was tested with a bomb, he wondered what good Superman ( _he_ ) could do when there was so much tragedy and evil in the world.

Lois brews coffee in the hopes that the smell or the caffeine or just the habitual movements will wake her up. But all it does is remind her of all the cups of coffee Clark has brought her. The croissants and bagels and doughnuts and Chinese and pizza he’s given her so freely with some vague reference to ‘a little place he knows.’

The flights Superman took her on, all the times he was there to save her even before she cried out for help, the things he knew that should have attracted her curiosity if not suspicion, the things he knew about Luthor…the Kryptonite cage, oh no, no, no, the Kryptonite cage. That was _Clark_ in there, Clark who crawled out of it and dressed himself and dragged himself up to the front of the Lexor building to hug her and comfort her and somehow neglect to ever breathe a syllable of ‘I told you so.’

Clark who lay on the floor with that Kryptonite bullet in his shoulder. Who grasped her hand and told her he trusted her. Clark who faced down Metallo and hid in shame that he was beaten and bruised and bloody. Clark who finally heard her compare him to Superman and _not_ find him wanting. Clark who then gathered the courage to ask her out, who kissed her, who held a dying woman in his arms and watched Lois slip away from him while the world monopolized his attention.

Every step of the way, he was there. Ties and capes, glasses and boots, he was always there.

_Don’t fall for me_ , she told him, so he tucked it all away (but never stopped hoping).

_I’m so completely in love with you_ , she told Superman while Clark nursed a broken heart.

_You lied,_ she realized while he did his best to tell her only the truth so far as he could, the omissions and deflections piling up until it was easier for him to leave her side than to try to juggle the shifting mountain.

_He’s a lot like you_ , she told Clark, and then _yes_ when he asked her out on a date.

_You live above us_ , she said to Superman while he looked at her with his heart in his eyes before he walked away. And when she went to Clark’s, he was packing, still walking away because it’s what he thought she wanted.

_I’m ready to take the next step if you are_ , he said, and then he came for breakfast and he told her his secret.

And she gave him nothing in return.

_I’m afraid you’ll hate me_ , he confided.

She doesn’t.

(She doesn’t think she ever can.)

* * *

How do you find a man who can fly from one end of the world to the other?

Lois doesn’t even try to hunt him down. She just goes to his place, retrieves the key from under the window frame (he showed her where it is, told her to use it whenever she needs to), and enters his place. The temptation to snoop, now that she is here and he isn’t, is nearly irresistible, but the possibility of him coming back to see her ‘investigating’ him is so horrifying that she doesn’t touch anything. Though she does look, enough to see that he’s unpacked all the boxes she was so stunned to see the night before. Everything is back in its place.

But the empty boxes are still stacked up on the balcony. It would be so easy for him to fill those boxes up again and be gone forever.

_Lois, we haven’t been happy with each other lately, and that’s my fault_.

He could disappear in the blink of an eye. Vanish from the face of the earth so that her only hope of finding him would be following rescues, ambushing Superman until…until what? He didn’t trust her anymore at all or he stopped letting any of the media close to him? Until he used his supersenses to completely avoid her?

She can’t let that happen. She has to stop him, has to let him know that it’s _not_ better for him to be out of her life. He’s…he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her, the best thing _in_ her life, and she can’t lose him.

She’s mad. Maybe. Or…disappointed. Or surprised. She’s _something_ , anyway, but she can’t lose Clark. She _refuses_ to lose him.

He’s hers.

Isn’t that what he’s promised her over and over again in a multitude of ways and a variety of words? Isn’t that what he’s proven consistently these past two years, always there, always ready with a hug, always willing to be her guardian, her refuge, her confidante, her friend, her hero, her _everything_?

Hopefully, he’s just out with his parents. Probably spilling all his troubles and woes out to them, and she supposes she might as well just give up any hope she ever had of them approving of her, not after what Clark has to tell them about today (or a lot of days, if she’s perfectly honest, which she tries not to be, generally).

Even if he’s not, if he’s out on a rescue or a story, trying to bury his troubles in work, Lois decides it doesn’t matter.

She sits on his couch, and she waits.

(She will wait forever.)

* * *

When he comes in, he must know she’s there. There’s no way Superman doesn’t hear her heartbeat and her lungs filling and emptying and the thrum of her pulse. She’s even turned the light on, so she is lit and obvious, sitting on his couch after a few hours of pacing and one time raiding his fridge for a snack and the cream sodas he keeps on hand for her.

He knows, but he doesn’t look at her for a long moment. As if he is alone, he walks down the steps. Stands in the middle of his living room and sighs. Then he squares his shoulders and turns to face her.

It doesn’t take a best friend or a body language expert to see that he has braced himself for the worst. That he _expects_ the worst.

The contrary part of Lois wants to give it to him, wants to shout and accuse and point her finger at him and say her own version of ‘I told you so’ (because she knew no one was trustworthy, she knew everyone lied, she knew no relationship could handle the strain of life).

But the larger part of her (the part that’s been coaxed and nourished and brought into the light by Clark’s presence in her life) wants, instead, to soothe him. To coax _him_ closer, to nourish _him_ with forgiveness and compassion, to bring _him_ (the true, real him) forward into the light. She wants to put her arms around him and caress his face and pull him down into a kiss that will spin their world once more and turn her giddy and flush like she was this morning.

What she actually does is something in between.

“Clark,” she says (because it’s important he know who she’s talking to). “We need to talk.”

He flinches. But he sits. There’s over a foot of space between them, though Lois isn’t sitting on the end of the couch.

“All right,” he says softly. “What do you want to ask me?”

“Questions.” She tries on a smile but gives up when it appears wobbly and unsure. It’s not like Clark is even looking at her to see it. “Questions are good. Answers are better.”

She didn’t actually mean it as a barb, but she can see why Clark takes it as one.

“I’ll answer.” He’s even more guarded now, if that’s possible, all the dazed awe from last night gone (she thinks she’d take the mess of packed boxes back if it meant he’d look at her again with that light of reverence in his eyes). Even this morning’s nerves are gone, drowned beneath his wary stiffness.

“Why?” she asks him. “Why tell me now?”

This actually gets a response out of him, his brows drawing down, his head coming up, and even if he doesn’t _quite_ meet her eyes, at least he’s looking in her general direction now.

“Because you told Clark you wanted to move forward, and we couldn’t do that with Superman in the way. I told you that this morning.”

“But why?” she presses. “I told Superman I wasn’t going to try loving him anymore, and you packed up all your things, so if it was that easy for you to just _leave_ me, then why bother telling me? Why not just wait until things went south for Clark too and then have _both_ of you leave?”

“Lois,” and there, finally, his eyes collide with hers, meet and hold and clash, “Superman isn’t who I am most of the time, and he’s certainly not who I am with you. I didn’t…I couldn’t know that you’d accept Clark until you chose him. Until you chose _me_. It wasn’t until you said goodbye to Superman—that you told Clark that there was more to us than friends—that I knew we could actually try this.”

“So the reason you never told me before…is because…what? I had to choose your disguises in the right order?”

“No!” She almost thinks he’s going to pull at his hair, but he only scrubs a hand back through it, angling to face her more directly. “I didn’t even know if the entire idea of Superman was going to work, at first. I’d never done anything like it, and I’d had to move so many times before, that at first, I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. But then…then you made it work. You presented Superman in such a way that the world accepted him. Even loved him, to the point that I was afraid Clark was going to completely disappear.”

“So why not tell me then? Clark was my friend and Superman was…was my…”

“Exactly,” he says, and he’s defeated once more, his face falling. “Superman was _yours_ and I didn’t even know how to _be_ Superman. I just…I just wanted to help people, then suddenly I was this icon, and if you hadn’t given me lines and expected certain things from him, I don’t know what he’d be. But, Lois, it was always Superman with you, and I was afraid that was all it would ever be.”

“But you were my friend. My best friend.”

“I _am_ your best friend,” he promises. “But you were dating Luthor”—it’s her turn to flinch away—“and you trusted him enough to almost marry him. Luthor hates Superman. I couldn’t put you in that position, having to keep a secret from the man you cared about. Having to choose between Superman and Luthor.”

But it wasn’t ever a choice between Superman and Lex, was it? Oh, she’d thought it was, but in the end, it was Clark who had mattered most. Only…she doesn’t think she’s ever told him that (so maybe he wasn’t the only one hiding secrets away).

“And after Lex?” she asks in a small voice. “After all of it, when I was with you all the time and you promised you’d never hurt me. What about then?”

“You were grieving, Lois!” he exclaims. “Why would I put that on you? This isn’t just a secret I keep for fun, you know—it’s not easy, and it swallows up huge portions of my life, and it isolates you. So…I couldn’t do that to you.”

She scoots a bit closer to him, wills him to look at her. “And I had hurt you.”

His mouth opens and shuts a few times before he nods. “Yeah. You did. But then we were friends again and you hid secrets for Superman—you got rid of that Kryptonite bullet—and…I don’t know. I didn’t want to risk that.”

“Until I did.” She tries another smile. It’s still shaky, but at least this one feels more sincere. “You didn’t even want to go to that club, and Clyde Barrows, he…he shot you.”

“Yeah.” Absently, his hand rises to brush at his chest. Lois tightens her own hands into fists to stop herself from doing the same (not yet, almost, but they’re not quite to that point). “I wanted to tell you, Lois, but I didn’t think I was going to be able to save Clark, and it seemed cruel to tell you I was alive only to keep Clark from you forever.”

“It wouldn’t have been.” She grabs his hand and squeezes, tight, tight, _too_ tight but she can’t care about that when remembered pain is swelling like a tidal wave. “It would have been kinder.”

“I’m sorry.” Somehow, in that magical way of his, he turns the death’s grip of their hands into a caress, loosening her fingers and weaving his between, giving comfort. “I was so afraid that whole time. I could barely process my own grief to realize yours. When I came back and I saw your face… I hate that I did that to you.”

“You came back as soon as you could,” she reminds them both. “You came back to me.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” he says, and she stares at him. Belatedly, he seems to realize what he said, how he’s leaning into her, the way their hands are clasped together, the proximity of their faces. He straightens and takes a breath (Lois’s own breathing isn’t too steady).

“So why didn’t you tell me then? Why keep it a secret still?”

“Because you realized Superman wasn’t perfect. He lied to you and you thought you were losing him. I couldn’t make you lose Superman and Clark at the same time.”

Lois looks away, blinking rapidly to keep her tears back. “And then I told Superman I’d do anything for Clark.”

“Yeah.” His tone is filled with a lingering awe, as if even now that moment exists as a treasured memory. “You risked your life for Clark and you helped Superman when he was blind and you…” He shifts. “You seemed almost…well, jealous…when you thought Clark was spending time with Mayson.”

“So instead of telling me the truth, you asked me out.”

And this, here, is what’s most important. What she most needs to know.

She stares at him until the sheer weight of her gaze compels him to look up at her.

“Why, Clark? Why ask for a date as a Clark when you could have told me the truth about you?”

“I…” The light is behind him, illuminating the flush on his cheeks and the yearning in his eyes. “I wanted you to love me, all right? I know it’s selfish, and I know I don’t have an excuse for it, and I lied to you, but, Lois, I just…I just needed to know that you loved _me_. Not the superhero, not the legend around him that _you_ created, but… _me_. Me in every moment. The me who works beside you and writes with you and goes home with you and wins every game of Scrabble with you because you cheat. I wanted it to be Lois and Clark, not Superman and Lois. And I’m sorry, but…I wanted that. I _needed_ that.”

“So why did you tell me now?” she asks again in a voice so dry, so choked, she’s surprised he can understand her. “I told Superman I wouldn’t be in love with him anymore, but…but I didn’t tell Clark that…”

And she can’t finish. She can’t even pretend to say the rest of that, because maybe she hasn’t said it with that specific collection of three words and three syllables and eight letters. But she’s told him. She’s shown him. She’s proved it.

Clark tilts his head as he stares at her (his hand still so gentle around hers). “Lois,” he breathes, “you said you wanted us to have a chance for more. You said that someone needed you and you wanted to be there for him. You said…you said _enough_. And I couldn’t keep hurting you, not if I really love you. I couldn’t lie to you anymore. If you can’t love me, then…then I’ll survive. But at least this way I know that…I know that you care about me. You care enough to risk your life for me—against cyborgs and nuclear explosions and, I hope, despite any secrets.”

He’s so open. So bare. So vulnerable. Waiting and trembling, terrified and hopeful, wishing for the best and expecting the worst.

Lois can’t wait any longer. She has her answers ( _he_ has the answers she wanted spilled out between them for his sake as much as hers). It’s time to give back to him the same thing he’s gifted her.

“You know,” she begins hoarsely. “I had a secret I think I was going to tell you this morning, too.”

His eyes flutter shut to mask his reaction before he opens them again. Patient. Friendly.

“You did?”

“Yeah, but I think I’ll tell you now instead.”

“What is it?”

She wonders if he knows that he’s leaning toward her, like a flower turning toward sunlight, gradually but surely.

“I started keeping it from you a long time ago. Back in the honeymoon suite, really. At least…that’s when I first thought about it. And then I kind of pushed it away until I was getting ready to marry Lex.” Her hands tighten on his when he reflexively pulls away. “I stared in the mirror and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pair my name with his. But I paired it with someone else’s, so when I was supposed to say ‘I do,’ I said I couldn’t.”

“Lois…” It’s a choked gasp. She can feel his breath stuttering against her temples, but it’s her turn to avert her eyes.

“I knew it, for the first time, when you hugged me even though I was dressed in white for another man. I knew it when you stayed by me that whole summer. I knew it, and I almost told you when you came back from the dead, but you were asleep and tired and…and I was afraid that it would change everything. So I kept it hidden, but it was hard from then on. It tried to come out no matter what I did. It made me do strange things and think strange thoughts, but I couldn’t shake it. And then you asked me out, and I thought that this was it. This was when I could finally tell you.”

When she shudders, Clark rests his free hand on her back, wide and warm and comforting enough to propel the rest of her confession out of its deep, dark hiding place.

“But Lex came back again, and he’d hurt you so badly. _I’d_ hurt you so badly. So I waited, and then I thought I’d lost my chance because Mayson died. Or rather, because I’ve never been able to have anything good that lasts. I’ve never been the person with it all. So I just assumed that I’d lost you. But I realized you needed me, and I needed you, and I came here last night to finally admit my secret. But…” She lets out a tiny laugh that Clark mirrors with a small grin, his eyes tracing her every movement. “But we got kind of distracted.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “We did.”

(He looks as if he’d like, very much, to be distracted again. Lois wouldn’t mind herself.)

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she tells him. “I was so excited about seeing you this morning. About finally getting to tell you my secret. But I didn’t think I would be able to actually say it, because, Clark, I was selfish. I wanted you to say it first. I wanted to know, for _sure_ , what you felt for me—even though you’ve already told me and I wouldn’t have blamed you for not wanting to say it first again. Not after last time. But even though it was selfish, even though it meant I hid things from you that I _know_ you wanted to know…I didn’t tell you. Because I wanted to know that you felt it too. I wanted to hear you say it. I _needed_ to hear you say it.”

And now (she can’t hold herself back any longer), she reaches up her free hand and lays it over the side of his face.

He leans into the touch. Almost unconsciously, unabashedly, until she holds his heart in her hands.

“So I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier, when I’ve known for so long. But I love you, Clark Kent. I love you when you’re an ordinary man who’s a sore loser at Scrabble. I love you when you’re a hero flying above the world. I love whoever you are when you’re not quite either one. I love—”

He kisses her. He enfolds her and envelops her and encases her in his love (Clark Kent’s unbending devotion and Superman’s gentle steadfastness).

And he’s not nervous, or afraid, or closed off. He’s heat and desire and _love_ and _forever_.

And Lois is still giddy.

(She thinks she will be giddy forever. It’s all right, though, because his touch grounds her.

It will always ground her.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the fact that Clark was ready and willing to confess his Secret to Lois on that breakfast meeting, and been kind of sad that this fact gets brushed aside so often. It was a lot of fun to get to explore what might have happened if Jason Mazik hadn't found Tempus's journal, or at least, hadn't called and interrupted that morning!


	3. What If...She Stayed?

 “I’m sorry…do I know you?”

In this moment, he wishes that he weren’t invulnerable. He wishes he’d never been invulnerable. Surely if he’d been able to hurt, to _really_ experience pain, on a routine basis, he’d have developed some tolerance for it. Some baseline of immunity so that instead of feeling _everything_ , he’d feel only the peaks that spike over that plateau (which would already, he knows, be too much to bear).

He was prepared for Wanda, ready to play a part and ease her back into Lois, but this…this is nothing.

This is a blank.

(At least she won’t love Luthor, he thinks, and hates himself for it.)

“I’m Clark,” he says. Some idealistic, hopeful, _stupid_ part of himself perks up and waits, for his name to resonate through her battered skull. For her eyes to spark and her mouth to curve and her hands to reach out.

“Clark.” She tilts her head slightly as she shapes her mouth around the word (his heart leaps to his throat). Then she gives the impression of a shrug. “Hmm.”

_Hmm_. Everything between them, all their history, the ‘Will you marry mes’ and the ‘Who’s askings’—all of it boiled down to this.

To a hum of acknowledgement.

Clark hurts. He hurts and hurts and hurts and he does not think, as he watches her disappear down a hallway (looking back at him, and he longs for that to mean something even as he knows, realistically, it’s likely because he’s the only non-medical person to talk to her), he really does not think that he will ever _stop_ hurting.

(And he has no one to blame but himself.)

* * *

The papers are all laid out before him. Apparently, he’s able to make medical decisions for Lois. As her fiancé. Not as her husband (which is what he should be, what he’s _supposed_ to be). But as the man her mother endorsed (not on the walk down the aisle or with the lighting of any candles, just medically and financially).

The facility on the brochure looks great. Clean and beautiful, full of smiling people and qualified doctors. But Clark is stuck on one phrase: _as long as needed_.

How long is that? How long would Lois be living in that place (alone), vulnerable and afraid and lost? How many days (weeks, months, _years_ ) will he be separated from her?

They’re qualified. This Dr. Deter is the renowned expert.

But the patients are all elderly. Lois ( _his_ Lois) won’t be able to follow her instincts, won’t be free to snoop and investigate and get into trouble, around them. The doctors may know more about memory loss, but not about Lois. _He_ knows Lois. Perry knows her, and Jimmy, and her friends at the Planet, Star and his parents.

Clark’s stomach tightens uncomfortably (with guilt?), but he lays the pen aside.

“No,” he says. “No, I’m going to take her home with me.”

* * *

“Oh,” she says when she sees him hovering in the doorway of her hospital room. “Are you here for me?”

The pain of that question strikes deep (because he _hadn’t_ been there for her, he was too caught up in his own selfish joy to listen to her when she warned him something was going to happen on their wedding day).

For her sake, he smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I am. You want to get out of here?”

She perks up immediately. “I get to leave?”

“Yeah. I don’t think this place is going to be any good for bringing back your memories.”

“Definitely not good for my sanity,” she says dryly as she stands and pats herself down, as if to make sure she’s got everything. She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and grabs a jacket, all things he brought for her from the suitcase in his apartment (the suitcase the clone had shoved aside in favor of a mountain of shopping bags he cleared out and donated to homeless shelters in his haste to pretend he hadn’t let an imposter into his bed).

“So,” he says past the omnipresent tightness in his throat. “You want to see what your life looks like?”

She grins at him. A real, unabashed grin, and if it has none of the fondness he’s so used to seeing soften the edges of it, it’s still beautiful (and it’s still directed at him). “Definitely. Lead the way, Clark.”

He almost does before something makes him stop. He turns back to her and gestures her ahead of him. “Actually,” he says softly, “usually, you lead. You are the senior partner, after all.”

“Really?” Her glee is almost childlike and Clark actually chuckles.

“Not _really_ ,” he admits, “but you definitely usually walk faster.”

She laughs, and precedes him out of the hospital.

* * *

The Daily Planet hasn’t changed at all. It’s the same as it was when he left everything clean and shut down, all ready and eager for his wedding. It’s the same as when he came back a mere two days later with a strange sense of foreboding and terror and uneasiness, a copy of Lois at his side. It’s the same as when he realized he wasn’t married, after all, that his dreams had turned into nightmares and his fiancée (not his _wife_ , because they never got that far) was missing, when he stormed out after the clone made him look like an abusive husband (neither of which he was, not abusive and not the husband he longs to be).

It’s the same, but there’s something completely different about seeing it through Lois’s eyes.

“So my name is Lois Lane,” she says as he follows her through the revolving door, “and I’m a reporter.”

“The best reporter,” he says, and for the first time sees a flash of hesitance in her eyes.

“Well, I _was_ ,” she mutters. “Who knows what I am now?”

“Hey.” Clark touches her elbow, just lightly enough to make her stop walking and look at him. “You’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever known, Lois, and you don’t need memories to have good instincts. It may take you a while to get up to speed, but I’d follow your hunches anywhere.”

She blinks up at him, touched and wondering. “Oh,” she says faintly. “Well, that’s…good to know.” Then she pulls back a step and summons up a smile. “What if my hunch says not to trust you?”

He can’t help it. He sucks in his breath sharply, the recipient of yet another blast of pain he’s nowhere near prepared for. His joints ache, his bones thrum, his skin is raw and taut, aftereffects of whatever Luthor shot him with repeatedly, but that’s nothing at all compared to the fact that he should have been there for her. He should have known when she was taken from the church. He should have realized the clone wasn’t her. He should have admitted sooner what he’d subconsciously known. He should have scoured the city by day and night and taken her from Luthor’s clutches without letting his own hurt cloud his judgment. He should have…he should have done _so much_ to save her.

And instead he did nothing.

She trusted him, and he failed her (repeatedly).

“Clark? Clark, I’m sorry. I was just joking, really. I guess my sense of humor must not be the greatest, huh?”

Clark wants to kick himself as soon as he blinks away his regrets to see Lois peering up at him worriedly, her hand resting on his arm. Once again, he’s focusing more on his own feelings than on what _she_ needs.

(Maybe it’s best they’re not married; maybe he’s really not ready to live up to the responsibility of being a husband.)

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” he says quickly. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t seem to reassure her despite the way she takes a step back. “Your sense of humor is fine. Great, even. Shall we go up to the bullpen? That’s where your desk is. Jimmy—he’s our friend—he can get you all the stories you’ve written, give you kind of a crash course in what you do.”

“Sure.” She watches him closely as he guides her to the elevators. It’s not until they’ve entered and are alone, the floors zipping past them, that she says, “So…I trust you, right? I mean, that’s why you were so hurt by what I said?”

It’s so hard to smile now even though he knows it shouldn’t be. Lois is here and safe, no matter that she doesn’t remember him. “Yeah,” he admits, because he doesn’t want to lie to her. “But I know you don’t really know me anymore. I’m not expecting you to just trust me automatically.”

“Oh.” She stares at the elevator doors. Just before they open, she says, almost firmly, “But I do. I think. I mean, you’ve been here for me the whole time. I definitely don’t _dis_ trust you.”

“Good to know,” he says, his heart just a bit lighter. As the doors open, he leans in just a bit closer to renew his promise (not a vow, but it feels like one all the same), “And you _can_ trust me, Lois. I would never hurt you. And I won’t lie to you.”

True to her word, she nods (she chooses to trust him).

And Clark is suddenly afraid, because _not_ lying to her…well, that’s never been his strong suit.

* * *

Perry tries to be friendly, but the strain shows through. Jimmy is open and eager and more than willing to compile disks of all her work (“BCK and ACK,” Clark hears him say. “Before Clark Kent and After Clark Kent.”). Several others come up and talk to her, and Lois holds her own with all of them, up front about her memory loss but in a teasing way that seems to set most everyone at ease. Clark tries not to hover, tries to stay at his own desk while she familiarizes herself with her own space.

“Clark, son,” Perry says, leaning over to talk to him. “Why did you bring her here first? Don’t you think she should be resting or something? She just went through some severe trauma.”

“The doctors say she’s fine aside from the memory loss,” Clark says, not able to tear his eyes off her as she dumps her cold coffee into the pot on the corner of her desk. “And she doesn’t remember the trauma, Perry. Besides, you really think Lois Lane wants to be resting?”

Perry studies him, his eyes shrewd, seeing more than Clark is entirely comfortable with. “You didn’t take her to your place yet at all, did you?”

Clark is silent.

“And you haven’t told her she doesn’t have her own apartment anymore.” Perry tips his head closer to really hammer in his next point. “And when, exactly, are you planning on telling her that you two are more than just work partners?”

“I’m not going to hit her with everything all at once,” Clark says, calmly. Logically. (Not, above all, giving away how much that _Clark…hmm_ still hurts him.) “And this is what she’ll remember first, Chief. She loves being a journalist, investigating, uncovering hidden truths. More than anything, _this_ is what will bring her back.”

Perry’s hand falls on his shoulder, a grip that Clark knows in his head is reassuring and companionable. But right now it just feels heavy, like another burden added to the rest already piled up there (Perry needs Lois back, too, he loves her, and Clark can’t mess this up for him, or Jimmy, or her parents, or even Metropolis).

“She loves you, too, son,” Perry says. “Don’t forget that.”

He can’t.

(But she already has.)

* * *

“So do we ever get to eat or do I live off of secrets and newspaper ink?”

Clark looks up from the screen he can’t focus on to see Lois actually approaching him, seemingly without any hesitance at all.

“Yeah,” he says with a smile. “We eat. I didn’t want to interrupt you when you looked so engrossed.”

“We write a lot of stories,” she says contemplatively. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think we worked for a tabloid. I mean, cyborgs and evil villains and voodoo—not to mention the biggest one of all. Superman. He’s an _alien_?”

His heart compresses into a tight ball of leaden nerves.

“Does that bother you?” he asks (he’s not sure he wants to know the answer).

“No, not really.” She shrugs and presses the button for the elevator as she pulls her jacket back on. “It’s just strange. Takes a while to get used to. We seem to write a lot of stories about him.”

“Well,” he says slowly, giving himself time to find a truthful way of answering, “Superman does his best to help a lot, like you do, so it makes sense you’d run into him often.”

“You used to get more quotes from him than I did,” she observes with a sidelong glance.

Clark’s laugh is real. He’s just so happy that she’s being suspicious and nosy, so relieved that she doesn’t seem afraid to talk to him. “Exactly how many of your old stories did you read today?”

She seems pleased. “A lot. Though, to be perfectly honest, I skimmed a lot of them. I was looking more for generalities than specifics.”

Clark is caught by the way the lights of the lobby reflect off the spark in her eyes (by the inch or two closer she’s walking to him than this morning). “I told you it wouldn’t take you long to pick everything up,” he says, and doesn’t fail to notice that her cheeks flush pink.

* * *

Not wanting to overwhelm her, Clark doesn’t fly anywhere to pick up dinner. Instead, he gives her the keys to her Jeep (she actually does a tiny excited hop when she realizes he’s letting her drive) and directs her to their favorite takeout restaurant.

“So where do I live?” she asks when they’ve got the food and are back in the Jeep.

And this is it, the moment he’s been both anticipating and dreading in pretty equal amounts.

“For now, you’re staying at 344 Clinton Street,” he says. He doesn’t comment when she makes the first turn without even asking him for directions. Maybe, he cautions his foolish heart, she spent some of her time this afternoon memorizing a map of Metropolis.

“Hey,” she says after a moment of silence (she still hasn’t asked directions). “I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” He tightens his hands into fists as she automatically takes the left onto his street.

“For staying with me.” She chances a look over at him. “I mean, I know we’re partners, and I’m guessing that we’re friends—probably even best friends, if the way you know my favorite food and where I keep my White-Out and have the keys to my Jeep is any indication—but still, all of this is above and beyond the call of duty.”

“It’s really not,” he says, and can’t help the almost regretful tone to his voice. “I mean, of course I’ll help you, Lois, I’d always help you, but…it’s more than that.”

She swerves into her usual parking spot with her usual lack of attention to the brakes or turn signals, and turns to face him. “What does that mean?”

“Lois…” He plays with the handle of the plastic bag holding their dinner. “There’s something I need to tell you. I’ve been trying to find a way to say it all day, but…I don’t know. I couldn’t find the right words or the right moment, but—”

“We’re dating.”

He stares at her. “What?”

She actually laughs at him. “I mean, come on, Clark, we work together all the time, we obviously eat dinner together, you’re the one who was at the hospital for me, and…well, frankly, the way you look at me doesn’t leave a lot of room for misinterpretation. You’re either miserable with unrequited love or we’re dating. And,” she grins as she gives him a very obvious once-over, “you’re a really good-looking guy, you’re sweet, you bring me coffee multiple times a day…I’m just surprised you weren’t snapped up way before I met you. You must have some hidden flaw.”

“I…I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I didn’t want you to feel pressured—”

“Clark.” Her voice softens. Her hand falls over his forearm. “It’s okay. I can imagine this is kind of awkward and there’s probably not a _right_ way to do this. So…you want to come in and have dinner?”

“I’d love to,” he says honestly, and is rewarded with her smile.

* * *

“This is your place,” she observes halfway through dinner. “Not mine.”

It relieves him, in some ineffable way, that this part of her has not changed. Her insightfulness, her blunt way of intuiting truth and then stating it. There’s something awe-inspiring about it in the best of times, and more amazing that now, with no context, she is still able to parse out truths from the multitude of details surrounding her.

“It is.” He lets her see his curiosity. “How could you tell?”

“Please, Jimmy already told me I started at the Planet right after college, and from what I can tell, I’m pretty much a workaholic. There’s no way I had time to travel the world and collect all these souvenirs—or read that many books. You, on the other hand, strike me as exactly the kind of guy who travels places, notices things, and studies lots of random subjects.” She pauses. “Am I right?”

“You are.”

Her smile is triumphant. “I think I am getting the hang of this investigative thing.”

“Maybe still a bit distractible,” he teases, “since you were so busy getting one answer, you forgot to find out _why_ we’re at my place instead of yours.”

“Well, that’s what I have you for, right?” she fires back. “You ask all the questions I don’t, notice the things I miss.”

He’s warmed by this assessment, his eyes softening. “I try,” he says. “Sometimes you don’t leave me a lot to do.”

She narrows her eyes at him, as if doubting the compliment. “Okay, so then, why _are_ we here? We’re not living together, are we? I know I don’t have my memories so I can’t know what _I’m_ like, but you seem more like a wedding-and-white-picket-fence kind of guy.”

He wishes he’d just get used to these random sucker-punches. He wishes they didn’t hurt so much.

(He wishes he didn’t deserve them all.)

“Do you know how you got hurt, Lois?” he asks.

She tilts her head, her vision unfocusing as if she’s searching through what remains of her memories. “I think the doctor said I had experienced multiple traumas to my brain. Something about hitting my head more than once in only a couple days. I guess I just assumed it happened while we were on a story.”

For just a moment, he contemplates going with it. Telling her that she was just staying with him for a few days for some mundane reason, that they’re working on straightening out her lease at her old place, letting her think they’re only dating.

But…he promised he wouldn’t lie to her.

And Lois, _his_ Lois, is in there somewhere. If she comes back to him, if she remembers ( _when_ she remembers)…he doesn’t want her to ever think that he was trying to get out of marrying her. She’s oddly insecure at the strangest of times, and he can’t risk letting her think he wants to back out of their life together. For better or worse, she’s still his (because maybe she never got to say the vows, but _he_ did, and he didn’t mean them for some copy of her).

So he leans forward on his elbows, makes himself smaller (less threatening), and says, “Lois, you were kidnapped. I didn’t know where you were. I couldn’t find you in time before…you were hurt getting away. You were confused, you thought you were someone else, and I…” He swallows hard. “Your kidnapper took advantage of that to lure you back to him. And by the time I…when Superman found you, the roof was caving in. Some of the rubble hit you. I’m sorry.”

“Clark.” She leans in, places her hand on the table near him. “It’s fine. There’s no way you could have stopped any of that. You’re a reporter, not a cop.”

“I’m your fiancé,” he blurts out. “You were taken from the church on our wedding day, Lois. I should have known something was wrong. I should have…I should have been able to save you.”

Shock. Shock and discomfort and disbelief and horror (all of his worst nightmares rolled up into one and he hasn’t even told her everything yet). She’s so easy to read, all of his Lois’s tells and none of her masks.

“I…I was going to marry you?”

The past tense hurts, like Kryptonite. Like finding out his wife wasn’t real. Like the weapon Luthor tortured him with.

“I-I don’t even know you,” she stammers, and then she’s up, tearing past him, ignoring his calls, darting up the stairs and out the door (out of his life).

“Lois!” he calls after her (after the Lois who’s gone, who was ripped away from him and taken out of his dumbstruck arms and wounded while she was held in his embrace as the roof caved in around them). “Lois, I love you.”

But the room is empty, and no one hears him (and even if she could, it would mean nothing to her).

* * *

He follows her from afar. Privacy’s something his parents really drummed into him in his teenage years, and he hates feeling like he’s spying on her, but for all her bravado, Lois is injured and confused (and Luthor had accomplices that were never caught). So Clark follows from the sky, far above her, hovering where she’s only on the edge of his hearing, the verge of his sight.

She wanders the streets, caught somewhere between aimlessness and purposefulness. When she finds her way to Centennial Park, Clark has to let his eyes drift closed, has to rely entirely on her steady heartbeat to keep him informed of her safety. It’s too much, too painful, too soon, to see her wandering the places that mean so much to him and mean nothing at all to her.

The park bench where he first told her he loved her.

The well where his powers were transferred to her.

The fountain where he proposed, and then where she proposed again.

So many moments. So many memories, and he never realized just how precious shared experiences could be until she was erased from all of his.

Clark finds a rooftop near the park and lands. His cape isn’t warm, but he craves an embrace ( _her_ embrace; she’s so small, so _human_ , and he could completely enfold her, but when she hugged him, he felt strong and safe) and wrapping the red fabric around him will have to do. He wishes his parents were there, just long enough to give him some wisdom, some comfort, and to enclose him in their own strengthening hugs.

But there’s only him. Him and his fiancée (or _is_ she? is he only engaged to the Lois who remembers and knows and loves him?). Apart. Alone. _Lonely_.

Eventually, Lois meanders out of the park and turns back toward his apartment. But it’s late and she’s had a full day (and he craves her presence), so Clark squares himself into Superman and descends from the skies.

“Superman!” she exclaims. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Just…checking around. Making sure everything’s okay.”

This is just like old times—picking and choosing his words so carefully to avoid lies, lying all the while with his appearance and his manner. He feels as if he is crawling through a minefield, each word liable to trigger an explosion he’ll only feel when he steps forward off the mine, thinking he is safe.

Instead of feeling nostalgic, he feels sick. He doesn’t like this. He _loved_ her knowing his secret. He loved that there were no more lies, no more omissions, no more evasions, just truth and inside jokes and private signals and secret smiles. He loved that she knew him, _all_ of him, and loved him still (anyway, despite, because of, he doesn’t even care anymore if only she will love him _again_ ).

“Hi,” she finally says, her expression equal parts awe, amusement, and surprise. “So I guess we know each other.”

“We used to,” he says. “But I understand that things are different now.”

“Sorry,” she offers with a grimace. “Every time I start feeling frustrated at everything I’m missing, I realize that it’s probably worse for the people who _do_ remember. At least _I_ don’t know what I’m missing.”

“It’s okay if you’re having a hard time.” He frowns, not liking the idea that she feels guilty. “None of this was your fault, and it must be difficult. Playing a strange part in the middle of everyone who already knows all the lines you’re still learning.”

Strangely, he actually can relate. When he first became Superman, the world seemed more comfortable with who he was and what he was there for (thanks to a certain reporter who set the stage for him with her explosive articles) than he was himself.

“Exactly!” Lois gifts him a smile. “So…any chance you’re flying in the direction of Clinton Street?”

Despite the situation, he laughs. “I’m always available to fly you, Ms. Lane.”

A flicker of uneasiness passes over her face before she smiles again. “I may not remember much, but there’s no way I’m stupid enough to turn down an offer like that.”

“Then let’s fly.”

He swoops her into his arms and up to the sky before she can think better of it. He’s so happy to see her smiling again, so relieved that she’s planning on going back to Clark’s apartment, so worried about just how close he is to breaking his promise of honesty. All of that, though, fades compared to the feel of her in his arms, cradled against his heart, warm and willing and so excited at the view.

“I always knew I was meant to fly!” she exclaims.

“You did?” He laughs.

“Of course.” She hesitates, then says, “Actually, I’ve been having these dreams about flying. I always feel so safe. So relaxed. So…”

“I love flying,” he says, mainly just to encourage her to keep talking. He’s flying as slow as he can, but they’ll still arrive at his place far too soon.

“Superman…” Lois bites her lip. “We’ve gone flying before, haven’t we? Do you think that’s what the dreams were—memories?”

“I don’t know.” He tries not to let her see the depth of his longing. “What do you think?”

“Well, one of the dreams, I felt…” She takes a deep breath and studies him closely. Clark feels his old insecurities coming back, the fear of being examined too closely, the paranoia that anyone really looking at him will see something that will lead to his entire life crashing in on him. (But then, his life already has crashed in, hasn’t it?)

“Superman,” she says slowly, “exactly how close were we?”

“We’ve gone through a lot together.” He gulps and darts a quick glance at her.

“But we’re _friends_ , right?” Lois’s eyes are tight, her hands clenched. “I mean, Clark and I…you help _both_ of us with our stories. Right?”

“Lois.” Clark sets her down in front of his apartment and steps back (his hands are reluctant to truly part from her warmth, lingering a beat too long). “I hope someday very soon you’ll remember.”

Then, with a flash of his cape, he flees (the temptation of) her presence.

* * *

When Clark opens the door to Lois’s tentative knock, he’s disappointed to see that she looks nervous. Almost…afraid.

“Lois,” he says with a touch of relief. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” After just a beat, she says, “Can I come in?”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry, of course. Look, Lois, I know you don’t…you don’t know me, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So…if you want to get a hotel room, or maybe we could call Star—she’s a friend of yours—and she could stay here with you, or—”

“When did we fall in love?” she demands.

“Um…” He blinks at her. “We… What do you mean?”

She stomps her way down the stairs and plops herself down on the couch. He’d tried to clear out most of the photos of them together when she was in the bathroom before dinner, but he didn’t have the heart to hide all of them away. She stares at the one of them smiling together, the engagement ring clear on her finger, as if the sight of it has swallowed up all her words.

He should have put it in the drawer with the rest.

“I can’t just walk around with this hole in the middle of my life,” she finally says. “So tell me. When did we fall in love? How long did we date? How long were we engaged? Why did I love you?”

For the first time, Clark begins to think that maybe he should have let Luthor pull the trigger on that weapon of his just once more. It’s a terrible thing to think, and he knows that if he’d died, Lois and maybe his mom and who knows who else would be dead, too, so he pushes the thought far away.

It’s just that he’s tired. He’s tired and he _hurts_ and he’s terrified of all the pain waiting to be sprung on him in the days to come.

But it’s Lois asking. Lois, and he can’t leave her alone. He can’t leave her lost and confused.

“Well,” he says, joining her on the couch, though he makes sure to leave a cushion between them. “I think I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you. I was in the middle of an interview with Perry and you burst in like a tornado, barely even glanced at me, but…I was so struck by your sureness. You’re so absolute in everything you do, so determined and bold. But, well, you told me not to fall for you.”

“Obviously, you didn’t listen,” she comments.

“I tried,” he admits. “But it was too late. Anyway, you needed a friend more than anything, so that’s what I tried to be.”

“I think…” She gives him a shy smile. “Well, you’ve been a good friend to _me_.”

“Thank you. You’re my best friend, always.”

“But…I must have eventually noticed you.”

“We had a lot of obstacles,” he admits (so carefully, so cautiously). “But yeah, you did. There were a lot of things that could have separated us, but you always fought for me, Lois. First as a friend, then as more. We started dating about a year ago, though we had a couple stumbles there, too. And then I asked you to marry me in September.”

“So…we’ve been engaged a while.”

“You said no.” At her stricken look, he hurries to add, “You didn’t think we were ready. And…I mean, it hurt, but you were right, Lois. We still had a lot to learn about each other. And then, in November, _you_ asked me to marry you.”

“And did you say yes?” she asks, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

He grins back. “In so many words.”

Her smile fades as she leans back into the couch. “And then the wedding came and you didn’t get a bride. I’m sorry, Clark.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says fiercely. “ _I’m_ sorry. You warned me you had a bad feeling about it, that you thought something was going to happen, and I thought it was just nerves. I thought…well, you’d…you’d had a bad experience with weddings before, and I thought you were just gun-shy. I should have listened to you. I should have—”

“Clark!” She grabs his hands, and his breath catches in his throat. “Clark, it’s okay, really. I don’t blame you, and I’m pretty sure that even if I remembered everything, I still wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’m still sorry,” he whispers, unable to look away from her hands on his. “I’d give anything to have been there for you when you needed me.”

“You’re here now.” She’s staring at their hands, too. “That counts, Clark. I promise.”

* * *

She sleeps in the bedroom. He sleeps on the couch, lulled into dreams by the steady metronome of her heartbeat. He dares to hope that things might be looking up (she trusts him, she touched him, she believes him) when, in the morning, she asks if he’ll let her go into work on her own.

“It’s nothing against you,” she promises. “I just want to talk to Perry about some things.”

“Yeah,” he says (her masks may be gone, but he can still use his, even if they are dusty and creaky with disuse). “That’s fine. I need to go by your old apartment anyway, see if they’ve rented it yet.”

“Thanks,” she says.

She eats the eggs he cooks for her, thanks him for breakfast, then she’s gone, the keys to her Jeep in hand. Clark flies above her just long enough to make sure she makes it to the Daily Planet, and then heads for Smallville.

* * *

His parents console and counsel him, then send him back to Metropolis with renewed determination to be and do whatever Lois needs him to be and do. Lois is sitting at her desk when he comes into the newsroom; she greets him with a strained smile but doesn’t come to talk to him. Clark talks to Jimmy long enough to find out she’s still reading through her old stories, then heads in to check in with Perry.

“How are you doing?” Perry asks without even a beat in between. “She take the news all right?”

“Well enough,” Clark says, not exactly wanting to confess that she ran away as soon as he told her. She doesn’t seem to mind the idea of them _dating_ , he reminds himself for the tenth time. “She has a lot of questions.”

“I’ll say.” Perry laughs outright. “Son, that’s the best thing for her. Lois doesn’t think in absolutes, she thinks in questions. Leave her be and I bet she’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“I hope so, Chief.” Clark tries to sound optimistic, but inwardly, he’s not so sure. The more he thought on all the obstacles he mentioned so sparingly to Lois, the things that came between them and the moments that almost destroyed them, the more he’s beginning to think that maybe he was right that time he decided to break up with Lois. Not right to break up with her, but right when he said that he was bad luck to her.

Maybe they’re _not_ meant to be together. Maybe he’s just been denying the inevitable, fighting fate, trying to make a future for them together. Maybe his insistence on her loving him as much as he loves her is just going to keep hurting her, over and over and over again.

But he doesn’t know how to say any of that. Doesn’t know how to let Perry know just how helpless he feels.

“Be there for her,” his mom told him.

“You love her, son,” his dad said. “Just love her, and I’m sure you’ll do everything you’re supposed to.”

He’s loved her for almost three years. It comes naturally to him. So he does his best to put aside his misgivings and pretend she is Lois from a couple years before, his friend and his partner but only on conditions. He brings her coffee and lets her be. He fetches her lunch and goes back to his own desk. He makes sure she takes a few breaks by joking with Jimmy in her vicinity and pulling her into the conversation.

It doesn’t seem to do any good.

She becomes more and more withdrawn as the day progresses. Her shoulders hunch tighter every hour, her frown growing into a full-on scowl as she squints at her computer.

“Jimmy!” he hears her call just when he’s thinking of calling it a day.

“What is it?” Jimmy asks (he talks intentionally loudly, his subtle way of making sure Clark catches on). “You need something?”

“Why aren’t there any stories from May of 1994 to almost August?”

“Uh…” Jimmy sends a quick supplicating glance to Clark before biting the bullet. “That’s when you were engaged to Lex Luthor. The Planet blew up, and it took a while to bring it back.”

Lois gapes up at him, stunned. “I was engaged to Lex Luthor?”

“Yeah.” Jimmy smiles sadly at her. “But don’t worry—you didn’t actually marry him.”

“Lois,” Clark says, shoving back his chair and standing, all of his protective instincts flaring. “I think it’s time to head home. I mean, head to the apartment. Come on. You must be starving.”

She comes. Docile. Compliant.

Cowed.

Clark hates it.

* * *

“Let’s play a board game,” he says abruptly after dinner, when she’s hardly said a word and he can feel her slipping away from him. “How about Scrabble? Or Monopoly, maybe. You always like Monopoly—it appeals to your gloating instincts.”

That conjures up the ghost of a smile from her. “All right, fine,” she says, a bit ungraciously. “We’ll see if I remember how to play _that_ game.”

His brow creases in confusion, but he pulls the game out of the closet and sets it up without comment. Lois chooses the car as her piece, just as she always does, a hopeful enough sign that Clark’s almost smiling when he chooses the dog.

“The dog?” Lois arches an eyebrow. “Loyal and dependable, huh?”

“Cars break down, Lois,” he says, his playfulness only somewhat forced. “Plus, dogs are much cheaper to maintain _and_ they love you back.”

“Give me a break.” She rolls her eyes and tosses the dice.

Clark loves playing games with Lois. She doesn’t lose with dignity (or, truthfully, without a lot of kicking and screaming) and she isn’t the most gracious of winners, but she puts her all into it. She’s alight with childlike pleasure when she’s winning, and flush with fierce resolve to better her fortunes when she’s losing. She laughs and gloats and plots and never ever lets him grow bored. Clark can barely pay attention to the game at all, too entranced by her every move.

And he thinks she knows it. As the game progresses, she grows looser, more relaxed, her gestures less controlled, her laughs less constrained. She leans over the board, so close to him he shudders at the suggestion of her body heat. Her hands reach out for his, to count the money when she judges him too slow, to move his own piece, to protest the roll of the dice. When it’s his turn, he can feel her eyes raking over him, studying him, and for once, he doesn’t wish he could disappear. Instead, he feels bolder. Braver. Stronger.

She’s looking at _him_. She’s here with him. She’s laughing because of him.

It’s not the same. It’s not love or a wedding or marriage. But it’s friendship and trust and _something_. It’s honest. It’s genuine.

(It’s hope.)

He loves it.

* * *

Unfortunately, her good mood doesn’t last the day at the Daily Planet. Whatever she’s getting out of her old stories, it doesn’t seem to be reassuring her at all (Clark hopes it’s not because so many of them are headed by his name linked to hers). Jimmy starts hiding from her calls, Perry visits Lois’s desk repeatedly and once talks to her behind closed doors (Clark has to flee the building in order to keep himself from listening in).

That night, after a couple games of Scrabble (four because Lois kept insisting she’d win the next game, until finally she declared his dictionary useless and refused to admit that he’d won), Clark gathers his courage.

“Lois,” he says. “I was thinking, maybe tomorrow, you could go out on a story with me. You’ve been catching up for a while now. Nothing will get you feeling back to normal more than chasing down a lead. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Before he can recover from his shock, she shrugs disinterestedly. “You think Perry will go for it?”

“Perry can’t wait to have his best reporter back on the job,” Clark says as he studies her. “If you’re worried that you won’t know what to do, you shouldn’t be. It’s pretty much in your blood, no memories required.”

Her lips twitch. “All right. I guess.”

It’s lukewarm agreement, but he takes it.

(He misses having a partner as much as he misses having a fiancée.)

* * *

As he hoped, Lois comes alive on the story. It’s not huge, probably page four or five if they’re lucky (or if Perry’s intent on bolstering Lois’s confidence), but just having Lois at his side, listening to her ask question after question, trying to catch up to her as she enters a door forbidding entrance…it feels wonderful. It feels like old times. It feels like he’s watching his Lois come back to him minute by minute.

So when they find the last piece of information they need to tie the story together, when Lois throws her arms up in the air with a gleeful shout, when she turns to him with her smile as radiant as the sun…Clark forgets.

He forgets that she doesn’t know him.

He forgets that she doesn’t love him.

He forgets that he doesn’t deserve her.

His arms wrap around her, her hands are warm on his shoulders, her laugh is resounding in his ears—and he kisses her.

It’s over almost before it begins, his sanity returning just a split second too slow.

Too late.

Clark stumbles back immediately (his arms empty, his heart hollow), his hands held out before him to show he won’t try anything (as if she can believe him _now_ ).

Lois stares at him for a long second while he tries to think of something to say ( _anything_ to say that will keep her from avoiding him or flinching from him) before she abruptly smiles at him.

“It’s fine, Clark,” she says. “Really, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

But he does. Endlessly.

(Did she like it? Did it bring back any memories for her? Will she ever let him kiss her again?)

She, however, seems to forget it entirely.

(He doesn’t know why he’s surprised.)

* * *

His parents surprise them with a visit. Martha takes Lois shopping while Jonathan goes with Clark to finalize the details on her apartment. Clark doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s been dragging his feet on this. It terrifies him, the thought of her moving out of his place, back to hers, and then just…forgetting him. Logically, he knows they work together and he can come see her like he’s done a million times before, but…but emotionally, he’s so afraid that the minute she has her own place to live and her own stories to write, she’ll consign the chapter of her life containing him into the past (a past she doesn’t even remember). Just move on and learn all new things, create new memories free of him.

When he speaks with the landlord, his dad is a solid support behind him, bolstering his strength of will and providing silent moral impetus to do this for Lois. (He can’t be selfish with her, not again.)

Martha and Lois come back from shopping laughing at something they refuse to explain. Lois hugs Martha when they leave (Clark follows his parents out the door without explanation, and Lois doesn’t ask where he’s been when he gets back from flying them to the farm) and smiles warmly at Jonathan.

“Thanks for coming,” she says.

But when Clark gets home (“She remembers more than you think,” his mom whispered in his ear when he hugged her goodbye) and asks her if she wants to play a game, Lois shakes her head.

“No,” she says quietly. “I think I’m just going to go into bed.”

“Okay. Good night.”

“Hey, Clark?”

He turns to face her, paused on the threshold to the bedroom. “Yeah?”

“Am I going to be able to move back into my old place?”

His heart contracts painfully. “Yeah, sorry, I forgot to tell you. It’s all set. You just have to sign a few papers, and it’s all yours. Did you want to do that tomorrow?”

“Oh.” She chews on her lip for a minute (Clark tries, futilely, not to hope that it’s because she doesn’t want to leave him). “It was taking so long I’d actually started looking at a few other places.”

“What?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the place was already gone. Besides, I thought it might be nice to have a new place. Kind of start over again with a clean slate.”

Clark’s struck speechless. Panicked. His fight-or-flight reaction landing firmly in _freeze uselessly_ (like it did before, when Wanda told him she didn’t love him and Luthor drove her away).

It’s exactly as he feared: she wants to forget him entirely.

“Never mind.” Lois smiles halfheartedly. “If it’s still open, that’s fine. I guess I can sign the papers tomorrow. Actually, we were going to go talk to Bobby Bigmouth, remember, introduce me again—why don’t we do the papers the day after tomorrow?”

“Okay,” he says numbly.

“Good night, Clark.”

She leaves him alone, frantically trying to figure out how to win her heart again in less than two days.

* * *

There’s a cry for help before Bobby Bigmouth arrives. Just as he turns his head toward the cry, Lois sighs heavily. “We forgot dessert. Didn’t you say he always insists on dessert?”

“Yes!” he almost shouts, desperate for this chance not to have to concoct some lame half-truth to get out of the Jeep. “I’ll go get it. Wait here.”

That was his mistake. Memories or no memories, he should have known that telling Lois Lane to wait anywhere was a surefire way of _ensuring_ that she got into some kind of trouble.

When Clark gets back to the Jeep, it’s empty, the food’s all gone, and Lois is missing. His insides are scalded with terror and he’s certain (so certain his veins run cold with ice) that Luthor’s actually alive, that he somehow survived (like a cockroach) all that rubble and the clone’s sacrifice. He’s back and he has Lois again and Clark will never be able to find her and—

And that’s her heartbeat, just a block away, quick and irritated but not scared-for-her-life-fast. Clark blurs past the motionless world and Superman appears like magic with the thug held up so high his feet dangle in the air, his gun fallen uselessly to the ground.

“Whoa!” Lois stares at him, then down at her suddenly free hands, and then she lets out a brief laugh. “Wow. Okay. Thank you, Superman. Apparently, he thought I’d be an easy target.”

“No,” Superman says (anger’s like rocks in his flesh, green and glowing and dangerous). “I recognize him. You’re with Intergang, aren’t you? This probably has to do with that story you wrote linking Mindy Church to the crime group.”

Lois folds her arms over her chest. “You sure know a lot about my stories.”

That’s enough to pull Clark’s attention from the man he’s holding in a grip just shy of _dangerously_ strong. “What?”

“I just read that article a couple days ago. I didn’t even quote you in it. In fact, you weren’t in it at all.”

“I do read the Daily Planet,” he says wryly, but it doesn’t seem to reassure her. “Look, I’ve got to take him to the police. Are you going to be okay here? I can come back if—”

“No. Clark’s going to be here any minute. I’m fine, Superman, thank you.” She’s backing away, shaking her head, avoiding his gaze.

( _Superman_ , she’d said with disbelief. _He’s an_ alien _?_ )

“Okay. Be careful, Lois.”

( _Superman_ , she’d asked so rigidly, _exactly how close were we?_ )

“Sure.”

Clark watches her go, and for all his invulnerability, he feels sick.

* * *

Clark’s already at the Jeep when Lois makes it back. She walks straight up to him without even acknowledging his utterance of her name—and she hugs him. Steps right into him, buries her face in the crook of his neck, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and her body trembles. Clark doesn’t hesitate in closing his arms around her, cradling the back of her head in a palm, and savoring every sensation.

“Oh, Clark,” she murmurs, and shudders.

“Lois,” he breathes. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here.”

She shudders again, and there’s a spot of wet salt against his neck.

But eventually, when her trembling’s eased and her arms loosen, Lois pulls back. She tells him what happened, but she doesn’t explain the hug.

And Clark’s a coward (too afraid of the answer) and doesn’t ask her the reason for it.

(He’s afraid it means goodbye.)

* * *

Her moods have been so strange that Clark isn’t sure he expected her to say yes when he invites her out for dinner that night.

“Yes,” she says with a smile, and Clark checks himself.

“Like a date,” he clarifies. “You and me, out together, on a date-date.”

“I know.” Her amused smile is softened at the edges by fondness (so familiar it makes his heart ache). “I may not have known my name until you told me what it is, but I haven’t forgotten what a date is. I’d love to go with you, Clark.”

For the first time in days, Clark lets himself feel hopeful.

He hopes it is enough (his time is running out).

* * *

Though he gets ready inside the apartment, he leaves early so that Lois can ready herself in private. She laughs when he knocks on the door and waits for her to answer it.

“For you,” he says, proffering the forget-me-nots.

Her smile is almost wistful as she takes the flowers. “That’s kind of an odd choice, Clark, considering our circumstances.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But maybe they can be our private joke.”

“Or maybe we can just hope I don’t forget you _again_.”

She’s teasing. He knows it. He _knows_ it.

It hurts.

(Isn’t that what she’s going to do? Move out and move on and leave him behind?)

Lois’s eyes soften as she looks back at him. “I won’t, Clark,” she promises.

“I know.” He does his best to offer her a smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re…you’re being so good to me that sometimes I forget how hard this must be for you. You lost the woman you love, on your wedding day no less.”

Daringly, Clark reaches out to hold her hand. “You’re still here, Lois. I didn’t lose you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” he admits, “but even without your memories, you’re still Lois. Drive and bravery and stubbornness and hatred for injustice and compassion—you’re still _you_. You’re still the woman I love.”

With a sharp breath, her eyes flutter closed (he can’t tell if she’s savoring the moment or holding back a denial). “Oh, Clark,” she murmurs when she meets his eyes again, and it’s her voice, the tone, the intonation, everything the same as always when she says his name in these tender moments.

It’s a victory, and Clark exults in it. Lets it color the rest of the evening. Allows it to embolden him when he talks to her. When he reaches for her hand and weaves their fingers together. When they leave the restaurant and walk side by side. When she’s standing beneath the halo of a streetlamp and her eyes are like stars burning mysteriously and her frame is so close to his (and he envisions a different wedding night, where she is not a clone and she does not sleep and he does not sneak away to go flying).

(He told her he loves her, still, always, _now_ , and she said nothing but his name. She stayed. She came with him. She’s standing at his side.)

“Clark,” she says just before he can do something crazy (something stupid) like kiss her. “Have I always put my life in danger?”

“You can be a little reckless,” he allows, perhaps more affectionately than he would have ordinarily sounded, drunk on her company and on hope. “But it’s only because you want to help. You want to make a difference. You want to change the world. Unfortunately, that comes with a lot of danger attached.”

“I know, but did I _always_ get into trouble or…or just since Superman was around to save me?”

“What?”

“Well, I know that you didn’t move to Metropolis very long before Superman arrived, but we must have talked. Was I always tied up over vats of acid and thrown off of buildings and nearly vaporized by evil geniuses’ inventions? Or did I just get really, really foolhardy when Superman showed up to save me all the time?”

“I…I don’t know.” Clark suddenly isn’t having any trouble staying weighted to the ground. “You think knowing Superman puts you in danger?”

“No, I think knowing that Superman is always going to show up has made me way more reckless than I used to be.”

Try as he might, he can’t read her face. “Why are you bringing this up?”

Her sigh is so heavy he feels the force of it even from several inches away. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Clark, and I don’t know that it means anything, but…I remembered something.”

“You did?”

He tries. Oh, how he tries. To stay calm. To not let his heart rate jump. To not immediately envision Lois waking up tomorrow with all her memories intact, frantically looking for the engagement ring he keeps in his pocket.

He fails.

“Yeah. It was while that guy had me at gunpoint this morning.” She rolls her eyes, as if exasperated by the whole experience (Clark can’t help but smile). “Anyway, there was this whoosh right before Superman showed up, and I…I just remembered a _lot_ of falling and screaming and nearly dying. And,” her voice drops so low an ordinary man wouldn’t hear it, “a lot of Superman flying to the rescue.”

“And that bothers you?” he asks, not even sure if he means her being in danger or Superman coming to her call.

“It doesn’t bother you?” she counters.

“You being in danger _always_ bothers me. But, Lois, if you’re worried that Superman won’t get there in time, I guess I can’t blame you after these past few weeks, but—”

“No, Clark, I’m worried that I—” But she cuts herself off, staring at him as he waits breathlessly for her answer. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Clark lets her direct them back toward his apartment, and almost doesn’t even notice that their path will take them along the outskirts of Centennial Park.

“Have…” He clenches his hands into fists. “Have you remembered anything else?”

“A few things,” she admits, almost reluctantly. “I remembered some things from when I was a kid—my dad being gone, my mom crying, getting a bike for Christmas even though I wanted a jet, a real one, not a dinky toy. I remember investigating and asking questions, that feeling I get when I’m on the trail of something really big. I remember Perry and Elvis and I think I remember Jimmy wearing my dress? Maybe I just made that one up.”

“No, the Prankster, he could freeze people and he liked practical jokes.”

“Oh, right, when the President came to town, right? I mean, one of the times the President came to town, way before this last time with the clones.”

Clark tenses, all his reaction to the fact that she’s remembered everyone but him subsumed beneath his guilt. His shame. His regret.

“It’s okay, Clark.” Lois threads her hand over his elbow and leans a bit of her weight against him. “Perry told me that there was a clone of me. He said that you noticed the difference before anyone else. He thought you’d gone crazy—and I think he still feels bad about that. It didn’t even take you very long, right?” Her chuckle is so fake that Clark actually winces to hear it. “Just a couple days.”

“She wasn’t you,” he blurts out. “I did know earlier, I knew something was wrong, but I…I think I was just afraid to admit it. I’m sorry, Lois.”

She looks away, out at the park across the street. “I’m not really the Lois you knew either, you know that, don’t you, Clark?”

“I told you, you—”

“I know, but I don’t have any of the memories you treasure, none of the shared experiences. It’s not the same.”

“It’s enough,” he tells her firmly.

Strangely, her sigh almost sounds disappointed. (Does she _want_ him to give up on her?) “Anyway, I guess the clone was really different, huh?”

“She was.” For just a moment, Clark sets aside his regret just long enough to remember the clone. The way she was so happy to help him. The look in her eyes when she told him she loved him. The fear she pretended away when she agreed to help him. The sound of her heartbeat dimming as she grappled with Luthor to save Clark’s life.

“She wasn’t all bad,” he says. “Just really young and very misguided. In the end, she wanted to help. She died helping me save you.”

Lois tilts her head quizzically. “You were there, too? I thought…I thought Superman was the one who pulled me out.”

Clark freezes. He can’t lie. He won’t lie. But…but she backed away from Superman and she agreed to a date with Clark and he doesn’t want to mess this up.

But Lois just smiles and squeezes his arm where she’s looped her hand. “Thank you, Clark. That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and pretends that he isn’t lying to her all over again.

* * *

“So, here we are.” He smirks down at her when he stops in front of the front door to his place (to _their_ place, he thinks, even if just for one more night). “Door to door service.”

“Is that a Kansas thing?” She laughs at him.

“It’s a Clark Kent thing,” he says, a weak response, but she’s staring up at him and her mouth is so close to his and they’re on a date, after all, and she _is_ Lois so it wouldn’t be cheating to bridge the distance between them. To set his mouth over hers and kiss her like he used to.

“Clark Kent,” she muses. “You’re not like I thought you’d be.”

“What?” His laugh is just a bit uncomfortable. “When? What did you think I’d be like?”

“When I was at the hospital and the only one who’d come to see me was you. I thought…I don’t know, I thought you were just a co-worker, and you’d done your duty and I’d never see you again. But then you came and you took me to the Daily Planet, you showed me who I was, you…” She gives herself a slight shake. “I guess you’re just one of a kind.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He shouldn’t, he knows, but he’s so tired, so impatient, and he has only this night. “So why do you think you haven’t remembered me?” He forces a laugh as he looks away. “I mean, you don’t think it’s because you don’t _want_ to remember me, right?”

“Clark…”

“No, I’m sorry.” He scrubs a hand back over his hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. This isn’t your fault, Lois, and I’m not pressuring you, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I don’t have to remember you because I’m getting to know you all over again and you’re just as good and sweet and great as ever. Maybe you haven’t changed so learning you is just the same as remembering you.”

It’s a kind answer (he pretends that it’s enough).

“Thanks for going to dinner with me,” he says to give her an out of the awkward situation he’s created.

“Thanks for asking me. This has been a great night, Clark. Really, the best I can remember.”

He watches her, barely breathing, hoping for miracles, or failing that, just a touch of grace.

“Come in for coffee?” she asks. And he doesn’t know if she’s still carrying on the joke that he doesn’t live here or if she’s actually inviting him in for coffee (or if she’s offering more, kisses and caresses and her heart), but whatever she’s offering, he accepts it. Eagerly. Intently.

Desperately.

* * *

They drink coffee. She teases him. He watches her, mesmerized, and tries to remember to respond every once in a while.

When the coffee is gone, she sets their cups in the sink. Turns to face him. And says, “Clark, I don’t think I want to go back to my old apartment. I’ll find someplace new. And I think I’m going to ask Perry for a reassignment. Something different.”

And then, before he can do anything more than flinch at the pain of this latest hit, she turns and heads into the bedroom.

* * *

They go out on a story together. Truthfully, Clark recruits Perry to his cause and then almost drags Lois with him, but he doesn’t regret it, not when she picks up on something he missed and starts trying to break into a section of dockyard that’s closed up.

“I don’t know why you think they’d be stupid enough to hide the stuff instead of get rid of it,” he says as he surreptitiously tugs the chain-link fence open for her.

She stares down as the padlock bounces to the floor before she shrugs and slips inside. “Trust me, Clark, most people don’t think they’re ever going to get caught. They don’t want to think about it, so they don’t, and that’s where they get tripped up.” She frowns abruptly. “And anyway, you don’t have to come if you don’t think that—”

“I think you’re right,” he interrupts her, and slides ahead so that he can guide her down the aisle that will hide them from the guard he hears up ahead.

Unfortunately, Lois stumbles right into the guard a bit later. They run and manage to lose him when Clark knocks some canisters over, but when he tries to convince Lois to head back, she digs her heels in.

“No, we’re already here, Clark! I’m not leaving until we get some evidence we can use to actually run this story.”

“That might not be the only guard here, Lois! This story isn’t worth your life.”

“Why are you always like this?” she demands as she rifles through the filing cabinet. “You always have to think everything through a hundred times before you make a decision—really, you’re so small-minded sometimes!”

“I am not!” he protests as he zaps the security camera in the corner of the ceiling with a shot of heat-vision. “And even if I am, it’s only because I’m trying to counter _your_ impulsiveness! You don’t even bother breaking the rules—you just throw away the entire rulebook!”

“Nobody cares about rules, Clark. See?” She shows him the file she snatched before shoving it in her bag. “If we’d let a couple signs and some dumb rules stop us, we’d never be able to stop people like this.”

“There’s more than one way to stop—” Suddenly, Clark grabs her elbow. “Wait. Stop. What did you say?”

“I said, I found it. Now let’s get out of here—or did you want to stand around and wait until we get caught?”

Clark hurries her through the twisting maze of shipping containers, his heart pulsing like a strobe light. As soon as they’re out of the fence and a turn away, he grabs her again.

“Lois, did you hear what you said earlier? You said that I’m _always_ like this. How would you know that unless you remembered?”

“I…” Her eyes fall away from his as she shifts her weight. “It’s…it’s just a figure of speech. I was caught up in the argument.”

“No, you…” He backs up a step, staring at her. “But you were using the same argument you used to. You said that—”

“It didn’t mean anything, Clark, I’m sorry.”

“But, Lois, you are remembering things and—”

“I don’t _want_ to remember!” she cries, backing away from him.

Clark is speechless. He can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Oh,” is all he can say.

Lois’s body sags, and an instant later, she’s approaching him, reaching out with trembling hands. “Wait, Clark, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then? Exactly?”

“I…I meant, I don’t think that I can be the person I was before. I don’t think I _want_ to be her.”

“Why not?”

But she doesn’t answer, and Clark doesn’t know how to interpret that (how to interpret _any_ of it except in the worst possible way, the only way that seems to fit).

They drive back to the Planet, and Lois writes the story, and Clark wonders what his life will look like without her in it.

* * *

“Clark, let’s get some dinner.” Lois is standing at his desk with a determined expression on her face. He’d ducked out for most of the day to be Superman (to pretend Superman isn’t just as affected by this as Clark), but he’s still not really working. It’s a good thing Perry’s being so lenient with him considering the circumstances.

“Sure,” he says. “Where did you want to go?”

“Back home,” she says firmly (a bolt of lightning pierces his heart at her calling his apartment that, even if it’s just because she doesn’t have anywhere else to go). “We’ll grab something to go. I think we need to talk.”

Clark hasn’t been able to think of anything else since that morning. Options and possibilities and nightmarish scenarios have run through his head non-stop, but now that it seems she’s going to give him the whole truth, he doesn’t think he wants to know. He almost thinks that it will be easier just dreading the worst than to have it actually confirmed.

Except…he’s done this before. Been afraid to say anything, afraid to shake up status quo and maybe lose her. Put off confessing everything and placing everything on the line. But when he finally did, she said yes. Yes to a date and yes to him being Superman and yes to a wedding.

And he’s just desperate enough to consider that maybe this will be another moment turned from nightmare to dream in Lois’s hands.

* * *

While Lois finishes cleaning up the dinner they hardly touched, Clark walks out onto his balcony. He hides the shaking of his hands by sticking them in his pockets. The sky’s dark above him, and because he is who he is, he can see stars glittering above the aura of light Metropolis exudes. He remembers all the times he’s floated up there, separate from the earth. And he remembers taking Lois up there, tied to this world he loves so dearly by her acceptance and her love. Now, seeing their cold beauty above him, he can’t quite decide if that sliver of sky is his refuge (from whatever Lois has to tell him) or his prison (when it is all that is left to him).

“Clark, I’m not trying to push you out of my life.”

At Lois’s voice, he turns to face her. She steps out onto the balcony, her arms wrapped around herself, her hair backlit by the light from inside. In contrast, he knows he stands in shadow, an unknown figure she’s trusted so openly even though she can’t remember him.

“After this morning,” she continues, “I did some thinking and realized that’s how it must look to you. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you think that. In fact, you might not believe this, but I was trying _not_ to hurt you.”

“What do you mean?” He clenches his hands into fists within the concealment of his pockets. He should have sent her to that medical facility. He should have realized he couldn’t help her. “I know that I’ve…I’ve dumped a lot on you, and it’s completely understandable if you want space. You _don’t_ know me, and—”

“I _do_ know you, Clark.” She takes a tentative step nearer him. “You’re right. I have been remembering some things. But…but I don’t know why _you_ wouldn’t want to forget them. I remember you telling me you loved me, and I blew you off for…” She looks away. “I remember comparing you to Superman, a _lot_ , and not in a nice way. I remember getting asked out by some guy and looking over to your desk and seeing you really hurt and still saying yes anyway. I remember a lot of things, Clark, and I can’t understand why you asked that woman to marry you.”

Clark’s heart softens and turns pliable, his hands uncurling and reaching out for her as he takes a step closer. “Lois, no, that’s…that’s not everything. There’s so much more, so much better. If you remembered everything, you’d—”

“I think I was cheating on you, Clark,” and she’s crying now, her voice breaking, her shoulders hunching inward, and Clark can’t hold back any longer. He’s there, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her close, breathing her in and hoping his presence comforts her rather than frightens her.

“No, Lois, no, you would never do that.”

“I remember kissing Superman—and I know I had a crush on him to begin with, but he kissed my hand, Clark, and I was wearing your engagement ring, and I told him I loved him, and he…he flirts with me, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Clark, I can’t believe I would do that to you, I can’t believe I was the type of person who would hurt the man who loves me and—”

“Lois, I’m Superman.”

It’s so easy. So simple. The three words roll right off his tongue and fall, plop, plop, plop, between them.

He can tell the instant she processes them. Her sobs pause, her breath catches in her throat, her shoulders still beneath his hands.

“I’m Superman,” he says again.

(And this is all his fault, again.)

“You…” Lois backs up, step by step until his hands fall away from her and she stands alone.

(And he knew this was coming, didn’t he, when he broke his promise and lied to her all over again with the Suit between them.)

“I’m sorry, Lois, I meant to tell you, really, but you were learning so much already and it’s a huge secret and I didn’t want to mess your life up when you were trying to—”

“So you let me think I was cheating on you!” she cries.

Clark winces. “Well, I didn’t actually know that’s what you were thinking, but…”

“But I trusted Clark, and I didn’t trust Superman.” Lois sighs and shakes her head. “Clark, I can’t believe this. All this time, I was so afraid that…that I’d hurt you so badly and you didn’t even know it. I thought, here you were, helping me, standing by me, and I’d been sneaking around behind your back. It made me afraid to remember you, because I didn’t want to remember what I must have thought in order to be _able_ to cheat on you.”

“So that’s why you didn’t want to be the Lois from before?” he asks. “That’s what all that talk of clean breaks and new beginning was about?”

“Yeah.” She sighs again. “So, all this time, all those memories I’ve been having…they were all you. You’re the one who said you’d take me flying any time, and you saved me from that thug.”

“I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes (wonders if, given the opportunity to do this a hundred times, he would ever get it right). “I promised you that I wouldn’t lie to you and then I…I did.”

“Yeah.” Lois tilts her head, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think there was a smile hidden at the edges of her mouth. “But…I guess I can understand why. It’s a pretty big secret, and as much as I’m trying to adjust, I guess I’m not really 100 percent yet.”

“I should have trusted you anyway. I should have told you. I’m sorry, Lois.”

“I’m sorry, too. I should have just told you what I was remembering. I told you I trusted you and then I didn’t.”

“You don’t know me,” he reminds himself. “And I know it’s a lot to—”

“Clark, you know how you keep me telling me that I _am_ Lois, that I’m the same woman you know?” At his nod, she does smile. “Well, then I wish you’d believe me when I say that I _do_ know you. I mean, aside from the whole red-and-blue thing, you’re kind of an open book.”

He blinks at her (but his own mouth can’t help but echo her smile). “I am? It didn’t take you very long to figure me out.”

“Well, you’re not very good at hiding from me.” She lifts a hand and runs it over his shoulder (Clark’s absolutely motionless, afraid of scaring her off). “You’re kind and hopeful and _good_. And I…I don’t need memories to love you.”

Clark’s begun to expect the pain of random moments, begun to get used to the way they slice through him. But this…this is different. The very opposite of pain, it’s so strong, so overwhelming, that his entire body seizes up at the flash of hope. The burst of happiness.

“And I love you,” he says (it explodes out of him, unable to be repressed any longer).

She tips her head up. Her eyes flutter closed. And Clark doesn’t let himself overthink this.

He bends down and slides a hand through her hair and kisses her.

He kisses her as if it is the first time. As if it is the last time. As if it is the only time. As if it is all that he is here to do, sent millions of miles through space, hurtling through explosions and void just for this moment. This woman. This feeling.

(He kisses her, and he knows that even if she never gets all her memories back, this is enough. This is love and trust and hope and faith.)

When they finally part, Lois leans her forehead against his, a long shudder running through her body. Clark’s eyes flutter closed for a moment before he opens them to watch as a smile turns her more radiant than the stars so cold and distant.

“Oh, Clark,” she whispers, “I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

“You could never lose me,” he whispers back. “Even if you _were_ trying to push me out of your life, I’d still love you.”

“No, I mean…” She opens her eyes and looks at him (there’s something shining there). She raises a hand to cup his cheek (there’s something heated in the touch). She tightens her embrace (there’s something so familiar about all of this). “I remember my life before you, Clark, when being alone was what I thought I wanted. And I remember my life after you, when I learned loving you was what I really wanted.”

Clark draws back. He’s sure he’s dreaming. He’s sure this is all going to fade in a moment and he will be standing here alone second-guessing every decision he’s ever made.

But she doesn’t fade, just smiles wider, shines brighter.

“You really remember? Everything?” he asks.

In answer, she kisses him until he feels himself spiraling loose and free (and they are spiraling, floating through air high above his apartment).

Her lips meet his and part only because her smile breaks the kiss.

“I do,” she says (she vows).

And Clark doesn’t even remember what pain feels like next to the joy eclipsing everything else. He can’t remember what it’s like to be alone, to be afraid, to be set apart. But he remembers Lois. He remembers the feel of her, the taste of her, the rightfulness of her in his life.

“I love you,” he promises (reaffirms his own vows).

She smiles. She hums (a low, contented sound in the back of her throat).

“Clark,” she murmurs.

She knows him.

(And this he will never forget.)


	4. What If...She Left?

He wanted her to beg him to stay.

She told him to go.

He wanted her to cling, to plead, to _hold on_.

She let him go (free).

He has never known strength like hers, has never imagined a will as great as hers, and knows he will never experience love to equal what she gave him.

(What she _gives_ him.)

Clark holds a silver ring in his hands, bends all his thoughts toward the planet falling away behind him, and prays that his strength is enough to see him through a life without her in it.

* * *

His heart continues beating.

It seems such a small thing, so normal, so everyday, that it staggers him.

The small Kryptonian globe-ship is traveling so quickly that it takes only an hour to go farther than he’s ever been before. Past Nightfall, past the distance he traveled toward the sun to tear the Nazis’ radiation from his cells (a process not quite as painful as the one awaiting him, when Earth’s last gifts drain excruciatingly slowly from him, taking away his invulnerability, his flight, his senses, maybe even the perfect memories he is clinging to so desperately). Farther than he’s ever been (if he doesn’t count his first trip here, so many years ago, a helpless infant that he wishes, selfishly, had faded from every other Kryptonian’s memory, forever outside their attention, forever safe).

And yet, even divorced from the planet that sheltered him, his heart continues to beat. A solid thrumming in a rhythm he knows. A rhythm made all the more familiar by the flights he’s taken through space when all he could hear was the rush of his pulse in his ears.

Beating, beating, beating, nudging up against bone and muscle, straining for the ring hanging from his neck.

It is all he can hear as Zara teaches him the Kryptonian language with its deceptive simplicity, it’s lack of ornamentation, its dozens of words for duty and responsibility and its single word for love. His Kryptonian heart pounds in a counterpoint to the alien syllables, straining back toward its adopted planet and the multitude of languages each with multiple words for the love he’s left behind (the love of family, the love of friends, the love of the woman he doesn’t think he can survive without). Clark memorizes and learns and throws himself into this training, hoping that he can save this remnant of Krypton by communication, by hope, rather than military might or royal lineage.

(He learns because he wants to tell Lois he loves her. Wants to swear himself to her in the language of his birth so that there can be no room for doubt or misinterpretation. Wants to pour his love into her through word and deed _and_ thought so that at least a _part_ of him can remain with her.

So that he can pretend he has not abandoned her entirely.)

The language settles in his mind, vowels and consonants, verbs and nouns, thoughts and feelings not his own.

Not of it is enough to drown out the relentless drumming of his stubborn heart.

It is all he can hear when Zara declares him passable and Ching breaks his grim silence to lead him to another room where there are staffs he calls drei. He talks of nobility and danger and tradition, words that pile up like baggage in the corner of the room, heavy and stifling and everything Clark wants to avoid. This is the man who tried to silence his own heartbeat simply to prove a point. The man who advocated killing that alien assassin without blinking an eye.

Clark takes the weapon Ching hands him, and he tries (he has to, because what is the point of leaving everything he cares about behind if he’s only going to give up immediately), oh, how he tries, but the brutal totality is anathema to him. His heart flinches away from the violence of the weapon, his mind flees back toward the quietness of his parents’ lessons about restraint, building up boundaries and lines around himself.

Ching glowers in discontentment. Zara watches silently.

Clark focuses on the feel of the organ pounding behind his breastbone and wonders if a Kryptonian heart can transform itself, like a phoenix rising from ashes, into an Earthen heart.

* * *

Earth is far behind them now. Clark stares at the choice laid out before him and wonders when it will stop being a choice (when it will become, instead, a regret).

Superman’s Suit is bold and bright and the very first thing about him that Lois loved.

Clark’s suit is muted and quiet but restful and the thing that eventually won Lois over.

The third choice sucks the light out of the room in ebony shadows and bounces it back in the regal blue making up the crest (familiarity made alien). Not the crest of hope. Not the symbol of help.

A royal house.

A dictatorship.

A prison and temptation and corruption all bound together in a mess he doesn’t think he (Superman or Clark Kent or Kal-El) can ever untangle.

Clark turns away from the choice and wraps his hand around the ring hanging from his neck.

His body is adorned with bruises from Ching’s punishing training, he feels drained somehow, and every thump of his heart feels as if it might be his last (it _yearns_ for all they leave behind), and he is afraid he is forgetting everything. Afraid that with every inch of invulnerability, every measure of flight, every super sense, he’s also losing the perfect memory that ensures he carries Lois with him wherever he goes.

Not gone yet, though.

His heart beats, and she is there with him, inside him ( _Lois, Lois, Lois_ ).

(He has a reason, still, to fight, to try, to stay alive, to _hope_.)

Around his neck hangs Lois’s ring. In his pocket he has a glass vial filled with soil lifted from the cornfields of Smallville.

Lois. Earth.

He clings to them with everything he is, and dresses himself in the costume of a dictator.

* * *

The beat of his pulse tingles at his fingertips, throbs against his wrists, feathers along his throat.

(He misses the feel of her hand in his. The excited way she’d grab hold of his wrist when inspiration struck. The tickle of her hair just under his jaw when he held her close and she pressed closer.)

The ship with its appearing and disappearing rooms is swallowed up in the maw of a bigger ship, a palace with a grand hall and too many faces and hanging flags that shift to mirror the crest on his own suit (not the red and blue with its reminders of his mother’s nimble hands and his father’s quiet pride and Lois’s unquestioning acceptance; not the concealing disguise of Clark Kent with his humanness and his job, his friends and his fiancée; black, instead, like the void enveloping him and blue as royal as the king they want to fashion from his puppet limbs).

Clark lets the alien formulas and sobering implications dance around him. He lets his hand be bound to Zara’s (wonders if she can interpret the name, the denial, his pulse hammers against her, slower rhythm). He lets them move him and nudge him and push him, a form of clay pliable in their hands.

(He wonders what they will say when they burn the outward clay away to reveal the steel within, bound up in his molten heartbeat. No puppet taken from a strange land, but a statue, already shaped, already cast, already set in stone.)

Union.

The Kryptonian word for marriage.

Clark’s arm goes rigid against Zara’s. He still possesses his powers. His cells are still gorged on the radiation of a gentler sun than theirs. He could, he knows, tear himself from Zara’s weaker hold. Could walk away from their useless plucking at his limbs. Could rip the bulkheads apart and flee this ship in an ebony and blue blur.

He could, he thinks with his heart rushing loud in his inner ear, still change his mind.

Go back. Back to Earth with its golden prairies and azure seas and proud cities.

Back to his parents and his friends and the only life he’s ever wanted.

Back to Lois.

(He is deafened to the Kryptonian marriage ceremony by the thunder of his yearning heart.)

Clark holds his every muscle in statue-like rigidity.

And he does not run.

He does not flee.

He stays.

He lets go.

* * *

There’s a bridal bed. Clark stares at it from his hunched position in a chair (his self-imposed prison), and remembers another bridal bed. Another marriage ceremony riddled through with deception. Another wedding night where nothing was as it seemed and confusion prevailed.

He thinks he would take that clone back in Zara’s place.

(At least with the clone, there was not the last remnants of a people depending on his sacrifice.)

“Your heart is not in this,” Zara observes after a long time, in English, as if reaching out to him.

Clark can’t move. Or rather, he _could_ , but he refuses. He will stay here, shackled to this chair, until some form of reason or logic returns to the proceedings.

“My heart,” he says, “is back on Earth. This…this is all just window dressing to get us where we need to go. Right? That’s still our plan—to save New Krypton from this Lord Nor and then to let me go home?”

His mind strains past the distraction of his heart toward Zara. The language was easy to learn; the telepathy not so much. Still, he does his best to read this woman who will be, in the eyes of New Krypton, his bride. If he cannot trust her…if she will betray him… Well, he needs to know now, before his cells are weakened and his place here becomes no longer a choice but a prison.

Zara moves to stand before him. “I will do anything necessary to save my people, Lord Kal-El. As I know you will do whatever you must to return to the planet you call home. If we cooperate, we can each fulfill our goals.”

“Then I have your word?” He looks up to meet her gaze (and he cannot read her mind, but he can read her eyes, can see her wonder and her zeal and her resolve). “One day, this marriage will be dissolved and I will get to return home?”

“If,” she says, “in return, I have your word that you will do whatever is necessary to save New Krypton.”

“I will do everything I can to save your world.” Clark takes a deep breath. “And then I return to mine.”

“Partners,” Zara says.

For the first time since the doors shut them up together, Clark rises to his feet. “Partners,” he says, then adds, “Not in bed. But in our goals.”

“Agreed.”

This time, when she takes his hand and he feels his pulse fluttering against hers, they don’t need officials or a knotted sash to complete the moment.

Finally, for the first time since he gave his farewell speech to the crowd at the Daily Planet, since he hugged his parents goodbye in Smallville and kissed Lois in her apartment for what cannot be the last time, Clark allows himself to think that this is not the end.

(He allows himself to accept the terrifying truth that his heart will _not_ cease working outside Lois Lane’s orbit.)

* * *

“A wedding gift,” Zara says. “Or a seal on our agreement. Whichever way you look at it, we must leave now.”

Clark’s brimming full of questions, but the sight of Ching guarding the door to their bridal chambers (the sight of fragility lurking there in his dark eyes before he blinks himself back to impassivity) has stemmed them all. So it is in silence that Clark follows Zara down corridors Ching claims are clear. It is in silence that he sees the small globe-ship where he left behind his Clark Kent clothes and his Superman suit and the last moments he will get to be truly himself.

It is in silence that he allows Zara to think them an entrance and pull him into a room. Not the room where Zara drilled him in alien syntax. Not the room where Ching tested his fading invulnerability by training him in the use of a Kryptonian staff weapon. A new room, one Clark has never seen before.

It doesn’t surprise him. This thought technology the Kryptonians possess seems boundless, and he is only surprised that Zara has brought him to a room with nothing in it but two long boxes that look like nothing so much as coffins.

“These are the escape pods,” she says in a cool tone. “They store up to forty-eight hours of air, and we are nearing the danger mark. Clark, please focus. Once we open the pod, you and I must distract anyone we meet in the corridors while Ching ensures safe delivery to our chambers. Do you understand?”

“No, he says truthfully.

Zara moves to stand just in front of him, her feet set, her shoulders squared. “I agreed to this against my better judgment, but I saw no other alternatives. Do not make me regret this.”

“Regret what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Remember your promise,” she says cryptically.

Then she turns to the box.

Clark looks back toward the door (or at least where the door was a moment ago). When a loud hissing noise fills the room, momentarily drowning out the sound of his heartbeat, Clark turns toward the opening pod.

He’s confused. He’s unsure. He’s wary (it was only a few days ago, after all, that Ching was ready to sacrifice innocent lives for his own goal).

The cover of the pod swings aside. There is a form lying inside, pale and slender and so, so familiar. Dark hair that feels as silky as the wind. Skin so soft when he caresses it. Hands that fit just so in his.

(And always, always showing up where she should not be.)

“Lois,” Clark says.

And his heart (so stubborn, so frail) stops dead in his chest.

* * *

When Clark first became Superman, he felt like a player entering a stage in the middle of a play and having no script. It was as if he had stumbled his way into a place where there was no direction, no preparation, and far too much pressure. Under the eyes of a crowd, he shifted and fidgeted and stumbled through lines that either seemed too absurdly stiff or too mundane to be part of the legend of Superman being crafted all around him.

He’d felt as if he were lost in a dream where everyone else knew a secret he didn’t.

As afraid as he’d been of losing himself, though, he kept going. Kept crossing his arms over his chest (to hide his vulnerabilities). Kept widening his stance (to keep them from bowling him over and leaving Clark Kent forgotten). Kept smiling that formal smile and playing a part everyone else had made up for him (rose to fit their expectations so that they’d never look behind the cape to the ordinary man in his shadow).

Now, he is lost again. Superman fades and shrinks away, and if even he is small and overshadowed, then Clark is even further away (hiding in the darkness of his own mind, shrinking away from the telepathic advances of the crowd staring at him). Kal-El is nothing more than a projection dressed in black and blue, a disguise cardboard-thin and formed of expectations.

(Clark has learned, though, just how strong that disguise can grow to be. He knows that Kal-El can become a person every bit as fully shaped as Superman.)

Zara sets her wrist against his, their fingers entwined.

Partners.

Not spouses. Not married. Not personal.

But partners nonetheless.

Clark smiles a formal smile and pretends he doesn’t mind when the people in front of him fall to their knees. He keeps his shoulders squared and his chin up, and he plays the part they expect him to play.

(He lies. Even here, among his own people, he is alone, a deceiver set apart by the lies he must tell, and maybe it has never been his secrets that make him a liar; maybe it is just who he is.)

(He lies, because Lois’s life depends on the strength of this deception, and so no matter that he feels like he is transforming into Lex Luthor, all power and entitlement and deception, he will do whatever he must.)

The crowd stares at him and Zara and chants their names. The Elders stand near him and watch with judging eyes. The soldiers hem the crowd in to keep them calm.

All eyes are on him (which means it’s safe for Ching to carry a drowsy Lois back to the bridal chambers unwitnessed).

In the hollow shell of his disguise, Clark tries to find something to hold onto.

He can’t.

Everything around him is lies and masks and thoughts he cannot read.

* * *

Alone in the room with his wife, his fiancée, and a man who could be ally or enemy, Clark feels overwhelmed in a mélange of emotions so great they sweep him up and spin him endlessly in their wake. Kryptonian language swirls through the air around him, thick and clustering like fruit of which he only plucks a few here and there. Just enough to get the general idea. Just enough to realize that it is not only his emotions that are carrying him in a direction not his own, but the situation itself.

Only one thing is clear: there is no going back.

Lois is along for the ride like it or not. His powers are too faint now to carry them back such a great distance even if he had a safe way to transport her. Worse, New Krypton is uninhabitable for her, but seeing as the mothership belongs to the House of Ra, and now of El, she will have to live aboard it indefinitely. They will find reasons for Clark to visit often, unless it is too dangerous and then he will simply have to stay away because (this above all he understands, this cluster of words sharp and poisoned) if Lois is discovered, she will die.

Clark is used to being a man divided: reporter and superhero. Friend and secret-keeper. Human and Kryptonian. Yet for all that, he doesn’t think the distinction has ever been so absolute as now.

A part of him sits on a chair (his former self-imposed prison become his haven) pulled up beside the bridal bed he swore he would never occupy. He stares at the woman lying beneath luxurious covers, sleeping fitfully. This part of him has her hand clasped in his and heartbeat pulsing in his ears, and he is jubilant. Relieved. Impatient for her eyes to open so he can drink in all of Lois Lane, rediscover everything he has just spent the last days simultaneously trying to cling to and to let go.

But beyond that, lower and heavier, there is another part of him that is horrified. Petrified. Trapped.

He swore to himself he would not be a puppet, would not act unless it was right, would not allow himself to be irreparably tied to this strange world.

But now there is a hand (impossibly fragile) resting in his. There is a heartbeat (achingly ephemeral) dependent on him. Lois is strong and capable and brilliant, but she is Human and mortal and even further out of her element than he is.

Her life is, as it never has been before, utterly reliant on him.

So he will dance to whatever tune they play. He will earn her oxygen and food and lighter gravity with his obedience to Zara and Ching’s demands. He will transform himself from a man of steel to a puppet made of malleable strings.

What other choice does he have?

He cannot lose her (the perfect hostage).

* * *

Lois wakes just as they’re leaving the solar system behind. Clark has only a moment to watch space recede into an aqua and silver rush of power, to wonder if it is only his imagination that he feels denser, heavier, slower, _weaker_. Only a moment, than Lois’s groan demands all his attention (the sight of her eyes fluttering open makes him feel, so abruptly it staggers him, as if he might begin floating, as if he can still break walls and bend bulkheads should she ask it of him).

“Clark?”

If she did not need him so badly to be strong here, this would break him. Would send him toppling forward, his strings cut, his steel melted, only his finite, mortal self left behind to fold beneath the pressure of his joy at hearing the voice (the way she says his name) that he half-believed he would never hear again.

As it is, it takes all his willpower to keep himself upright, though he bends enough to lay a kiss to the hand cradled between his (to the place where a ring belongs).

“I’m here, Lois,” he says (she must never be allowed to feel alone, not when he is here; because he is all she has left now that Earth is so far removed from them). “I’m right here. And so are you. Here. With me.”

She smiles at him, clearly having anticipated his response to finding her along for the ride. He hands her the bottle of water Zara left on the table for her, helps her drink through the straw, and tries very hard to bottle up all his words (his questions; his exclamations; his thanks).

“So,” she says when he sets the water aside and takes her hand once more in his. “I know you’re probably not happy with me, but I had to do this. I couldn’t let you go off all alone. Clark, you’re so strong, but you’re strong because you have people you love, people who love you, who believe in you, who can let you be yourself. On New Krypton, if you’d gone alone, you wouldn’t have any of that. And even the strongest man can’t be strong all the time. Besides,” she tries a mischievous grin, “you know me. You really think I could pass up a story like this?”

“But…what about Perry? My parents? You said you’d take care of them.”

“I know, but…” She takes a deep breath and sits up straighter against the pillows. “They’re strong, too, Clark, and I know they would rather someone be there for you than to sit and worry at their sides. And I told Jimmy that I was going undercover with Clark.”

“It’s so dangerous,” Clark can’t help saying. “If they find you here, they’ll kill you. And you can’t leave this ship. You’ll never even be able to set foot on New Krypton. If anything happens to this place, you could—”

“Clark,” she says (does she know how wonderful it is to hear his name, here where he’s resigned himself to being a shell of a character he doesn’t know?). “I had to come. I couldn’t stay behind. So, please, don’t be too upset, all right?”

And how can he be? How can he be upset when seeing her lying in that escape pod, even motionless and pale, was the greatest moment of his new life as Kal-El?

(How can he be angry with her when she has no one else besides him? When she left everything behind to be with him?)

“I’m not angry.” He moves, then, breaking his vow, and sits beside her on the bridal bed, close enough to put his arm around her shoulders and rest his forehead against hers. And he tells her a truth (Clark’s truth, even Superman’s truth, but not Kal-El’s). “I’m so glad you’re here.”

And then another truth (a truth that supersedes all his identities).

“I love you.”

He leans in to kiss her.

* * *

But there is no kiss.

(He wonders if there will _ever_ be another kiss.)

* * *

Zara and Ching rise from the corner where they secluded themselves, and interrupt the moment.

“I’m sorry, _husband_ ,” Zara says coldly, “but certain proprieties must be kept. Infidelity is allowed only in the most extreme of wartime situations, and even then only with licensed concubines.”

“What?” Clark and Lois demand together, perfect synchronicity that makes his heart sing.

“I agreed to bring Lois only because she insisted that if I didn’t, she would coerce you into staying on Earth. However, there are still rules, and codes of conduct. Lord Nor has a great deal of support, even among the Council of Elders, and one slip could lose us any advantage. Kal-El, our marriage is a great coup. We cannot afford for anything to jeopardize that.”

“I didn’t say it exactly like that!” Lois sputters just as Ching stiffens even further (if that’s even possible) and says, “The Lady Zara deserves a husband who supports her in all ways.”

“Our marriage is only for show,” Clark says, his eyes fixed on Zara. “That’s what we agreed.”

“So we did. But you also promised to do whatever it took to save New Krypton—and that includes your fidelity.” Something in his expression must move her, though, because she softens and adds, “I don’t like it either, Kal-El, but we’ve made our choices, this is the situation, and we have no choice but to follow it through to the end.”

“Wait.” Lois shifts on the bed until she’s nearly kneeling. “You’re married? You two? Already?”

There’s something shaken in her eyes, a dark stirring of loss he doesn’t like. Clark grabs her hand and lifts it to place over the chain around his neck, reminding her of what lies beneath the stiff royal uniform (the truth beneath the mask). “It was a political ceremony,” he assures her. “And it will be dissolved as soon as we stop Lord Nor.”

“Well, then.” She shakes her head slightly, swallowing hard. “What are we waiting for?”

* * *

His powers seep from him slowly and then all at once, powerlessness bleeding into him like tea in hot water, swirling, darkening, changing him at an elemental level (so deeply he is afraid it is as impossible to be Superman again as it is to turn tea back into plain water). He feels slower, heavier, as if every one of his molecules has gained a hundred pounds. Breathing becomes difficult, an arduous task he has to constantly devote part of his attention to. It’s easier (safer) to remain still rather than to move (than to dance to their alien tune), so Clark grows cautious, quiet, motionless.

“What’s wrong with him?” he hears Lois ask Zara. Not superhearing, just the result of four people being cooped up in one room and the fact that his ears are attuned to Lois, particularly when her voice carries this note of panic.

“He will adjust,” Zara says, and he wishes he could believe his hearing is good enough to pick up her voice as well, but he feels the waves of serene calmness (mask over something surging beneath, darker and more volatile) washing up against his mind, a tide carrying her spoken words.

Every day, his mind grows more accustomed to registering and interpreting the telepathic currents swimming all around him.

(Every day, he fears he’s losing more of himself, his soul washed away by the constant tide.)

“Clark? You okay?” The back of Lois’s fingers brush against the back of his, a subtle contact so welcome, so overwhelming to him, that he probably gives it away to everyone nearby, broadcasting his sudden release of tension without even meaning to.

Behind them, Zara stiffens and closes her mind off in a way Clark hasn’t mastered yet. Ching steps closer to her side, grim and displeased.

Clark doesn’t care. He has eyes for only Lois. Warm and familiar and _human_. The only person around for lightyears who _wants_ him as well as needs him. Who loves him (simply because of who he is, not what his heritage is).

“I’ll be okay,” he says. “It’s just hard trying to learn everything.”

“You like learning,” Lois says (her own superpower, her ability to both discern and proclaim truth, not lessened at all even so far from Earth’s yellow sun), “and you’re curious about everything Kryptonian. Clark,” again her fingers brush lightly, almost accidentally, against his, “you can do this. I know you can.”

And he believes her. Of course he does. She named him Superman and made him into an icon of hope and truth, and because she did, he was able to _become_ that model. If she says he can do this, can become a leader and political governor and figurehead for an entire people, then he knows he can. (He never would have come if he believed otherwise.)

But that’s what scares him.

He doesn’t want to _be_ Lord Kal-El. He doesn’t want to rule and dictate and enforce.

As Superman, he’s created clear lines for himself that he will not allow himself to cross.

As Clark, he keeps himself carefully hidden behind a façade that governs his powers and keeps his ideals in check.

As Lord Kal-El? He will have no limits, no boundaries, no safeguards.

No powers to remind him of the need for caution. No secret identity to give him direction and steer him from overstepping.

Just an ordinary man given extraordinary power, placed in a high position he did not earn, and given free reign to ‘make things better.’

(He’s seen that before, and it still haunts him with the memory of bars glowing green with fire.)

“I’m scared,” he breathes out, a confession so soft, so timid, that Lois must hear it only because she knows him so well. “I’m scared of who I’ll become…without my powers…with all _this_ power.”

Her eyes soften at his gesture to the opulence surrounding them. “Oh, Clark,” she says. Fondly. Smiling. (Not afraid.) “That’s why you’re the perfect person for this. Being afraid of what you’ll become? That’s exactly what will keep you from becoming the thing you’re most afraid of.”

She doesn’t name his phantom (he wonders if she even knows it), but he’s reassured anyway.

With Lois by his side, surely, _surely_ , he will not, he _cannot_ , turn into another Lex Luthor.

* * *

When he sees New Krypton through the porthole, he is split in two. There is a part of him (childlike; the shadow of an orphan, starved within him) that strains for this small, homely, shadowed planetoid orbiting a larger, brighter, dead planet; desperate to connect and discover and learn everything he can about the family he never knew. But there is also a part (older, wiser, more afraid) that longs for Lois, hidden away in the bridal chamber; longs to gather her close and knit their flesh together, to use her humanness as a way of combating any parts of his nature that might tear him away from Earth and the kindly farmers who are his true parents.

One of his hands reaches forward to the porthole, touching the image of that growing planetoid (he reached forward once before, too, up toward the preserved image, the echoing words, of his father, the scientist). But his other hand moves up to his own throat, to the chain holding what he wants most, the vial of earth and the ring of silver (last time, the hand he’d held between Lois’s had slipped away as he stepped in the direction of Krypton and the past made future; he will not make the same mistake now—he has learned not to let go).

“New Krypton,” Tre says behind him, pride in his tone and grief in his mind. “Our home.”

 _Their_ home, Clark corrects to himself behind all the mental walls he knows how to build. But not his home.

Never his.

(But still there is that tiny piece of his orphan soul yearning, now, for Krypton rather than Earth, and he trembles at the realization of just how hard this is going to be.)

* * *

It’s painful, leaving Lois behind, all alone in a room deep in the bowels of a ship manned only by a skeleton crew. As Clark rides a globe-ship down to a surface shrouded year-round in shadow, he can think of nothing but Lois’s brave smile and encouraging words and trembling hands. He has a pinch of soil and an engagement ring and a purpose, but Lois?

Lois has nothing.

His heart quells at the thought until he’s tempted to speed back to the mothership and blast his way inside (if only he still could), to fold Lois inside him until his own bones and muscles and lungs and heart can become a personal environment for her, a haven to keep her safe without completely isolating her (if only it were possible).

He thinks of her, come to a foreign place for him and now left behind. His senses are filled with the tight embrace she dared to give him despite Zara and Ching’s disapproving presence.

Until the globe-ship lands, and the walls fade away, and he comes face to face with a world in dire need.

He’d thought he knew despair. Hopelessness. Panic. Loss. He’s seen the darkest corners of the world, reached down to the most downtrodden of souls, battled evil so great he could hardly bear to look at it.

But none of it compares to this.

People with _no_ hope. Thin and wasted, pale and desolate, a people transplanted to a world dark and grim, subjected to the possibility of a leader with only his own best interests in mind, scrabbling for mere survival while still mourning the loss of an entire planet. They are (worst of all) resigned to their fate. They accept it with solemnity, without the hope or the thought of anything more.

He knows all this, can taste the hopelessness in the back of his throat, because the air is thick with their grim thoughts. Every step he takes is weighted by the sludge of their despair, all of New Krypton a mire of loss and desolation that sinks deep into his mind and drowns him, little by little, suffocating whatever hope he has in himself.

How can he possible expect to be able to help a people so resigned? What can he possibly do (with so little knowledge of their ways and so intent on leaving as quickly as possible) to make a dent in such desperate need? Who is he to think he can affect an entire world and come up with the solutions so obviously eluding them?

As he reels, Zara places her wrist against his, the red on their decorative vests blending seamlessly. For the first time, Clark is grateful for her touch, her presence, her help. She steadies him as he takes his first sluggish steps onto an alien planet. Guides him as he’s introduced by the Council of Elders to the people, gathered in a scraggly crowd before the vast fortress hewn into a mountainside and footed by a walled town, all of it covered in a veneer of dusty frost. Stands beside him with faith in her thoughts as the problems are brought before him, one by one, wrapped in the dull eyes of helpless farmers and cowed townspeople and powerless lesser nobles.

_Lois. Lois. Lois._

Her name becomes the heartbeat that encompasses his inner world, the anchor that keeps him attached to some tiny piece of hope he can’t let himself lose. He forces in a thick breath (smells the scent of her hair), carefully unclasps his hands from the fists that want to form (feels the softness of her skin), keeps his eyes fastened on the supplicants before him (imagines her, curious and intent, ever eager to listen and investigate and throw herself into solving whatever problem lies before her).

He’s Lord Kal-El, yes, but that’s not all he is. Lord Kal-El, Kryptonian and steeped in their old ways, cannot (for all that he stands before his people as a solution in and of himself) solve anything. But Superman, symbol and hope and figurehead, can keep trying, keep determining, keep standing straight and tall no matter what weight is placed upon his shoulders. And Clark…Clark has Lois and the example of his parents, Perry, Jimmy, all the good people he’s met; he has the ability to empathize and identify and connect.

Together, with Lois believing in him and Zara supporting him (even Ching whispering tiny pieces of advice in his ear), Clark will do all that he can.

He will not give up.

(He doesn’t think he will ever learn to really, truly let go.)

* * *

The fortress is cold and echoing, but large enough for the people to gather and watch a shorter version of his union ceremony with Zara.

“A few words,” she murmurs to him below their cheers. “Give them something to believe in.”

The language is dense, almost as hard to reach for as the oxygen his lungs beg for. But he has come all this way (has abandoned and left behind and changed all his priorities) to be here. What are a few words now?

“You’ve survived,” he says (he knows his words are accented, his voice strange in this unfamiliar gravity, but they listen). “Against all the odds, you’ve found a way here, found a way to survive and thrive. I admire your strength and tenacity. And I believe that every people, no matter where they find themselves, no matter what they face, can always rise higher. Can reach further. Can dare to try for better things. Together, Zara and I will help us do exactly that. Instead of just surviving, we will live.”

It’s not enough. The words seem vague and paltry to him, tiny droplets of water in the desert of need. But the people soak in his words with a silence so absolute it makes him nervous.

There isn’t applause when he finishes. Instead, there is a settling, as if the thoughts that before filled the cavern calm and strengthen. As if, even in some small way, he has touched them.

“Lord Kal-El,” Zara pronounces (another identity proclaimed to a world before he is comfortable with it).

As one, in a ripple that rocks him back on his feet, the people kneel.

A ruler.

A leader.

A savior.

He is not any of those.

But he can try, for their sakes.

* * *

They start with food, and Clark has never valued his early years on a farm as much as he does now. Kryptonians, he discovers, didn’t farm, not for centuries before Krypton’s destruction, and everything they have learned has been through trial and error.

“Our scientists have determined the best seeds to grow,” Tre explains.

“And you’ve been growing nothing _but_ those seeds since you got here?” Clark asks, a bit too incredulously judging by the way Tre’s eyes tighten around the edges.

“Our people are hungry, Lord Kal-El.”

“Yes, but draining the soil of all the nutrients isn’t the answer.”

“Explain,” Zara says, intervening in that calm way he has quickly come to value.

So he does, actually leading them out to a farm and bending down to sift his hand through the thin dirt. It’s so cold his hands ache, like a bruise deep in his bones. Clark tries to hide it by standing and clasping his hands behind his back. He talks to the farmers, to the scientists, to the botanists, to everyone he can think of until finally there is a glimmer of understanding lightening the air (he takes a full breath for the first time since stepping from the globe-ship).

It’s a start.

“The people see you doing something,” Ching says tersely when they are back in the fortress. “That almost matters more than whether your new ideas succeed or not.”

“It will work,” Clark says, dully. He’s exhausted already, weary in a way he doesn’t remember ever being before, and it hasn’t even been a week since his arrival.

Zara studies him for a long moment (he imagines his thoughts laid out there for her to see, as if his mind is a computer screen, left open and vulnerable). “Kal-El,” she says, “I think it is time you took a step back and assessed our next priority.”

“All right.” He sighs. “What do I need to do?”

“We’re returning to the mothership.”

Clark does his best not to show the depths of his relief, but he thinks the way he reaches out and squeezes her hand gives it away.

* * *

Lois isn’t in the bridal chambers (he didn’t expect her to be). Somehow, she has managed to convince a few of the crew that she is an illegal third child, smuggled into the ship and hidden away to save her life.

“It gives me a chance to stretch my legs and talk to some people,” she tells him as she leads him unerringly through the maze-like corridors. “Zara gave me a translator to use in emergencies and I figured going crazy counted as an emergency, so I used it. It’s not foolproof, but they think I’m just a little slow, probably because third children aren’t allowed to be educated—can you imagine? That’s something you’ll need to change, Clark, or should I say, Kal-El.”

“Please,” he interrupts, blinking for possibly the first time since he saw her smiling at him from the hold. “Don’t call me that.”

Her lips turn up at the corners, though the expression falls somewhat short of being a true smile. “Clark,” she whispers. “I know who you are.”

He can’t help himself, reaching out to thread a hand down the curve of her cheek, just brushing the edge of her hair, sleek and familiar even though it smells different now.

Behind them, Ching clears his throat.

Clark drops his hand back to his side. It’s okay. He doesn’t need to touch her to drink her in.

When they’re alone in their room (the bridal chambers, he thinks again, though with a different connotation entirely now that it is Lois sharing the room with him), Clark sinks down in his chair and scrubs his hands over his face.

After a moment, Lois drags a chair over beside his and begins talking. “Der is keeping me up to date on what you’ve been doing. She’s kind of a gossip, but you’ll be glad to know she likes you. She says she’s never heard of a Lord pretending to be a farmer.”

With a smile, Clark tries to straighten his back. “Well, for now, quite a few of them like me, I think. The hard part will be when Nor gets back from his trip. Zara said he takes hunting trips regularly, but this one was on short notice, probably to hide the fact that he’s sending assassins to Earth after lost heirs.”

Lois’s mouth tightens. “Zara said all that, did she. And when does she expect Nor back?”

“She said he should be back in a week or two, but Ching said he might delay a bit longer to make sure he knows what he’s going to be dealing with and to come up with his own plan of attack.”

“Oh, really?” Lois purses her lips and leans forward. “Or will he come back early to stop you from winning the support he wants?”

“I don’t know.” Clark brushes his hand over the chain beneath his suit, making sure it’s still there (still hidden). “Either way, it doesn’t give me a lot of time to focus on the more pressing concerns.”

“Isn’t Nor a pressing concern?” Lois asks with an arched brow.

“Yes,” Clark admits, “but people can survive a bad ruler. They can’t survive a winter that lasts a hundred years, or famine that never ends, or a class system that always leaves a percentage of the population out in the cold. There’s so much wrong here, Lois, so many things they should be dealing with, but they’re too caught up in their politics and maneuvering. I don’t know how to get them to focus on the long-term goal of making this a _home_ instead of just a place to set up camp.”

“I think you’re already doing it, Clark,” she says softly.

Clark straightens once again, lifting his chin. “Right. I’m trying.”

Her hand on his knee freezes him. “Stop doing that,” she murmurs.

“Doing what?”

“You keep making yourself stiffen up. Like you’re still playing a part. I’m here, Clark, and I know who you are. You don’t have to put up a front with me.”

“I know,” he says (but does he? She believes the best of him, she needs to believe that he’ll succeed here so they can return to Earth. She thinks he can still, even powerless and cold and aching, do everything that Superman would. She _needs_ him to be strong and competent and brave).

“Clark,” she says again, and they both pretend Ching isn’t there at the door (just as Ching pretends they are not closer than Zara would want them to be), leaning into him and sliding her hand over his cheek. She’s so warm, so soft, so tender, that Clark has to squeeze his eyes closed and picture steel overlaid atop his bones to keep himself from crumpling. “It’s okay.”

He puts his hand over hers, and soaks in her warmth.

“I love you,” she whispers.

Hope is reborn inside him.

(For this, he can endure anything.)

* * *

For three weeks, this is enough. Clark plays a part, guided by Zara’s steady advice and constant presence, setting himself up as a figure to give the people hope. He learns names and stories and asks questions, rearranges the people until the man who cannot bend his back is no longer a farmer but a sifter inside, the woman with a small child is given light work where she can watch her baby. Small changes, but necessary, crucial. He thinks the thoughts surrounding him are lighter, less mired in resigned hopelessness. He thinks they are beginning to respect him despite the Earthen accent to his words and the strangeness of his ideas.

When it seems too much, everything he still has yet to do and the heaviness bowing his shoulders, Zara arranges for Clark and Ching to return to the mothership. Lois cajoles Ching into giving her access to the Kryptonian records and begins studying their history, learning so quickly that Clark soon learns to expect his own history lessons every time he visits her. She always finds something that helps him, some piece of knowledge that helps him chip away at the stubbornness of old Kryptonian traditions.

(She tells him, again and again, that she loves him, and much as he looks for it, he can see no sign of resentment, of anger, of blame that she is so alone while he is gone so much of the time.)

“How do we change laws?” he asks Zara when he arrives back on New Krypton from his fourth visit to see Lois.

“Why?” she asks him, not quite as serenely as usual.

“Because,” he says, “the best way to stop Nor from seizing power is to ensure he can never be in a position to rule. And because there are some injustices that can only be righted by changing the laws. And because,” he drops his voice, raises his mental walls, “one day, when we’re ready for our marriage to be absolved, we’ll need to have a structure in place to allow it.”

“I hardly think that should be a priority at this point in time.” Zara exchanges a look with Ching, then says, “There have been rumors starting in the outland properties but moving inward. Rumors that you are loyal to Earth rather than New Krypton. Insinuations that you are trying to remake us in the likeness of Earthers.”

“What?” Clark swallows, not sure what to say (these rumors are not, he thinks, entirely false, but he doesn’t need telepathy to know Zara doesn’t want to hear that). “I thought the Council of Elders had endorsed my suggestions.”

“Your commands,” Ching corrects sternly. “And it’s not endorsement so much as patience. They wait to see what happens.”

“They wait to see what will happen when Lord Nor returns,” Zara says.

* * *

They didn’t have to wait much longer.

Nor came on the tailwind of rumors and accusations concerning Lord Kal-El and his allegiances. Ching told Clark that Nor had first gone to the farms where new seeds had been planted in weary soil, where water was being funneled through irrigation ditches, where farmers were given their own plots to cultivate for themselves. Then he went to the inner city where wages had been equaled and a day off per each week had been given to all the workers. Lastly, he attended the Council of Elders.

“And?” Zara asks. It’s disconcerting, to hear her calmness shaken by the suggestion of nervousness. “Are they still in session?”

“They were when I last heard,” Ching says. “But Lord Nor will not risk Kal-El interceding on his own behalf. He will want to leave his own words to fester in the Elders’ thoughts and give them time to grow.”

“We should hurry.” Zara stands and crosses her wrist with Clark’s. “Come. If we can get to the session before it concludes, you can speak in our defense.”

“Why don’t _you_ speak for us?” Clark asks, though he follows her without hesitation. He’s grown used to her wrist against his, their disparate pulses playing against each other, Ching at their heels. “You know more about what’s going on here than I do.”

“Once we were united, you became my voice.”

Clark stares at her. “And you wonder why I want to change the laws here?”

“Hush!” Her quick command is accompanied by a mental slap that has Clark staggering back from her. “Say nothing of that now. Lord Nor will attack you in any way he can, and you suggesting _that_ will help only him. We have done what we can to help in the long term. Now, it’s time to hold our ground and stand against Lord Nor.”

“I thought we were here to help the people!” he hisses. “ _That’s_ what matters. _That’s_ what’s important.”

“And you can only do that if you are in a position of authority. Being imprisoned for treason won’t help anyone. Certainly not Lois.”

And here it is. He doesn’t know why it surprises him. He knew this was coming, knew it from the moment Ching swept Lois up in his arms and Zara took Clark’s wrist. Their hostage, their demands…his puppet-strings.

He is Lord of New Krypton. Supreme ruler in a language that buzzes in his head.

But he has also never been more powerless.

Nothing more than a pawn.

* * *

Lord Nor is cold and slimy. He reminds Clark of Luthor at first, but the more he talks, subtlety edged out by blunt cruelty, the less he seems like Luthor and the more he resembles Metallo instead. A brute with some form of cunning, not enough to conceal what he truly is, just enough to make him successful at manipulating others and getting his own way more often than not. Strong and violent and unpredictable, a heart of Kryptonite bleeding outward to poison whoever dares get too close.

He stares into Clark’s eyes with scorn, speaks in a sneer he doesn’t bother to hide, all condescension and dismissal and threats just barely masked by a veneer of political small talk.

“You stink of Earth,” he says.

Clark tilts his head. “How would you know?” he replies. “Have you been there?”

Nor’s eyes narrow, danger glinting in pale blue. “Your handiwork is everywhere in the city nowadays. I hear we’re not even growing any food now thanks to you. Something about trying some different seeds?”

“I didn’t know you worried about the food supply,” Clark says evenly, Zara’s thoughts steady against his. “From what I’ve heard, your soldiers have carted away produce from several farms—but I haven’t seen any meat from your hunting trip. Did your quarry escape you?”

Zara’s wrist tightens against his, a gentle warning.

“Oh, I always get what I go after,” Nor says lowly before raising his voice and gesturing around him at the soldiers filling the banquet hall. “Kryptonians survive. You might not know that, coming as you do from…” He cocks his head in a clearly affected air of curiosity. “Where did you say you came from? I mean, all true Kryptonians came _here_ , scraping together a life from the rock and frost without even the benefit of graves for all those we lost. We stuck together and formed a community based on the ideals handed down for generations. But where were _you_? You weren’t there. You didn’t help dig this fortress from stone. You didn’t give your portion of food to a starving comrade. You didn’t shiver with the cold under the starless night. No, of course not. You, the precious El child—you were hidden away. Coddled and protected and _weakened_.”

“Yet here I am,” Clark says (he’s been warned by Zara and Ching not to allow Nor to bait him into answering questions about his past). “Helping and building and doing all of it with the Lady Ra at my side. You do know my wife, don’t you?”

(It makes bile rise in his throat, to play this card, but it’s the only trump he has over Nor, and Ching has been glaring at him for some minutes, goading him to pull out all the stops. Better to definitively end this confrontation than allow it to drag on and leave doubt in the minds of everyone eavesdropping on their conversation.)

“Ah, Zara.” Nor’s eyes rake over Zara in a possessive manner before he clearly dismisses her. “Well, the House of Ra has never had the most discerning taste. And they’ve been known to change partners.”

“I don’t believe lack of loyalty is _their_ failing,” Clark says coldly.

“And weakness isn’t mine.” Nor smiles at his men, ringing him now in a half circle. “I’m a soldier, El, which is more than you can ever be, no matter how much that bodyguard over there tries.”

A shiver of foreboding races down Clark’s spine, a shudder all too visible. Zara stiffens against him (in support or disapproval, he can’t tell).

Nor shouldn’t know that Ching is training him in the drei. He especially shouldn’t know that Clark still hasn’t mastered the art of it. Not unless someone’s been informing on them.

“Come, come.” Tre is abruptly there, Jenn Mai at his heels, coolly observing the proceedings. “Lord Kal-El, Lord Nor, this is no time for arguments.”

“You’re right,” Nor proclaims. “Arguing accomplishes nothing.”

When he turns and sweeps away, Clark tries to catch Tre’s eyes, or Jenn Mai’s, or any of the Elders. He fails.

They all turn and walk away, leaving him and Zara and Ching alone.

“That could have gone better,” he admits.

Zara says nothing (admission all its own).

* * *

There’s something clogging his throat and he can’t stop shivering. His bones ache in the heavy gravity, and even returning to the ship’s more forgiving atmosphere doesn’t alleviate the constant burn in his joints. The negligible weight of the chain around his neck is all that keeps him upright (a contradiction as compelling as the woman who gave it to him), enough to keep him walking with the determined stride of a Kryptonian lord (no human weakness, no Earthen frailty, to make him even more of a target than he already is) until he’s safely behind closed doors.

“Steady,” Ching murmurs from his place a step behind. For a man who routinely layers bruises over Clark’s skin trying to train him in the use of the drei (for a man willing to endanger hundreds of innocents just to keep Clark _away_ from New Krypton), Ching has become a source of comfort in the past weeks. Always there, tireless, unyielding, radiating strength and support when Clark is most exhausted, ready with the Kryptonian word Clark fumbles for or the correct ritual to ensure an Elder’s (all too temporary) support.

“You get two days here,” Ching reminds him when the corridor is empty of all but them. “Plenty of time to reassess.”

Reassess. A strange word to encompass everything these treasured trips have come to mean to Clark. Comfort. Rest. Healing. Peace.

And temptation, too. That above all.

The doors to the bedchambers open and Lois is there. Waiting. Smiling so brightly it reinforces just how dim everything is on this shadowed planetoid. Warm and so welcoming it makes him realize just how wary his people still are of him, always reserved and cautious and shut away behind their mental walls. And quiet—no humming thoughts, overflowing emotions, pointedly voiceless doubts to buffet him on every side.

Just her. Lois. So close. So full of love.

So forbidden.

(How can his promise to Zara be even harder to keep than his resolution to leave Earth behind? Why does _this_ seem so much more a sacrifice than laying aside his other personalities to slip into Lord Kal-El’s royalty?)

Zara is there, too, of course, his constant warden. It’s cruel, he knows (not to mention dangerous) to think of her that way, but he can’t help it. Where Ching is confined to the role of bodyguard, and consequently, mostly expected to stay silent, Zara is Clark’s partner. His equal. Always ready to guide him, advise him…caution him against everything he longs to do for their downtrodden people. He’s always reminding himself that she has a better understanding of their people than he does, that she wants to save them even more than he does; but he worries that her caution, her desire for slow changes, is a cover for trying to keep him here as long as possible.

Or maybe it’s simpler (more selfish) than that. Maybe he just chafes at her always being in the room with him and Lois, policing their proximity, chastising their closeness. In order for him to have excuse to visit the mothership, she usually goes ahead of him and doesn’t leave before him.

“It’s excusable for me to retreat to the ship,” she told him, “seeing as how desperate the Elders are for an heir. Or for any Kryptonian child. Every newly married couple is encouraged to spend a great deal of time together.”

Except… _she’s_ not supposed to be his bride.

Lois should be his wife, _is_ his wife, in his heart, where the last true bits of himself reside. He longs for her, _needs_ to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her and finally breathe again for the first time in far too long.

“Clark, Zara’s been telling me about your meeting with Nor.” Lois risks a quick hug, there then gone so fast Clark is left with only the fleeting impression of warmth. “How do you think it went?”

“He didn’t seem too fazed,” Clark says. “He had all his arguments already prepared, and he didn’t react like someone who’s just been threatened. He’s either way too well-informed or he sees something we don’t, some way out of this we haven’t planned for.”

“Informants?” Lois gives a slow shake of her head. “Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do about that. Is there?” She turns to Zara, who’s exchanging her own whispered conference with Ching. Zara steps away from her bodyguard just a bit too quickly, her eyes not quite as serene as her features.

“Lord Nor has threatened much of the populace into doing his bidding at one point or another,” Ching answers while she composes herself.

“And the Council of Elders is split on most issues,” says Zara. “As much as I hate to admit it, they might not all be supportive of our union, Kal-El.”

“Nor didn’t seem supportive of _you_ in general,” Clark points out. “If he’s hoping to marry you himself, I’m surprised he’s not working harder to court you.”

“Once, Krypton was a place where I would have had an equal say.” Zara’s eyes tighten. “But now, with our low numbers and the need for strong leadership, my voice can easily be drowned out by the Elders.”

“Unbelievable!” Lois is instantly outraged, the frustration he knows she feels at being shut away like this easily sparking into rage against any visible injustices.

Not that Clark doesn’t agree with her, but he’s afraid his own frustration is motivated by selfishness. It’d be so much easier, after all, if he could help Zara take control of New Krypton’s leadership and then whisk Lois away, back to Earth.

(But he knows what that would really be: fleeing. Giving up. Running away. And he can’t do that. He _won’t_ do that.)

(Not yet.)

Clark lets the blessedly English words wash over him, lets the rise and fall of Lois’s voice soothe him. He wants her opinion, needs her clear-eyed way of looking through things to the heart of the matter. But their time together is so short, and he’s so tired; he wishes they could just pretend that everything outside this room doesn’t exist. (Pretend that the fate of an entire world doesn’t rest on his quaking shoulders.)

It takes him by surprise, when he looks up at the touch of a hand against his brow, to realize that he’s sunk down into a chair, that Ching and Zara have once more retreated to the opposite corner of the room, that Lois is standing over him with a worried frown on her lips.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Clark? You seem a little warm.”

He _feels_ warm, afire with her proximity and her attention and the wonderful, terrifying way she’s given up absolutely everything to ensure he isn’t entirely alone here.

“It’s warmer here than down on the planet,” he says, but catches her hand as it falls away from his brow. Zara would disapprove, but Clark tightens the walls around his mind and presses Lois’s soft palm against his mouth for just a moment (imagines that he and Lois are on Earth, and married, and this truly is their bedroom, and he is free to tug her closer, to wind his arms around her waist and press his love into her through fever-hot kisses.)

He shouldn’t have.

It only makes it harder when he has to let her go.

“Are _you_ okay?” he asks her. “Is there anything I can do to make it easier for you up here?”

“Paper,” she says. “And a pen. And, let’s be honest, probably lots and lots of White-Out. If I’m going to publish a Pulitzer prize-winning series on the events here, then I need to start keeping notes.”

He tugs her to a seat on the bed, so close their hands hang between them, dancing on the edge of touching. “And are you going to write about _everything_?” he asks, his eyes intent on the tiny spaces between their fingers.

“Well,” he can hear the flirtatious smile in her voice without even looking up (no need for telepathy with Lois, not when their hearts have always been able to connect despite everything between them), “not _everything_. I suppose I’ll leave out the necklace you’re wearing.”

His breath catches in his throat when her fingers strokes along the line of the chain disappearing beneath his ebony collar.

“What about the union with Zara?” he asks, still not quite meeting her eyes. “Will you write about that?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Why?” There’s suddenly an edge to her voice, a tremor in her fingers. “Is the _union_ that important to you?”

“No.” Clark gives her a soft smile. “Certainly nothing next to the _marriage_ I’m looking forward to having.” When she relaxes at that, he feels his own nervousness returning, joining the near-constant nausea in his stomach to leave him feeling clammy and light-headed. “I guess I’m just curious what angle you’re going to take.”

“What do you _want_ me to write about?” Lois leans closer. “About how you’re ensuring there’s enough food to go around? About how you’re going up against a tyrant who’s only concerned with power? What about how you gave up your whole life to help a people who don’t even appreciate you?”

“I didn’t give up my _whole_ life.” She’s so close, so mesmerizing, he can’t help but lean forward. Closer, closer, so close he can smell the scent of her hair (and it staggers him to realize how long it’s been since he smelled it and just how much of a loss it seems to lose even this constant along with the rest of his powers). “Thanks to you, the most important part of my life is still here. With me. Helping me. Making me strong enough to do this.”

“You were already strong enough,” she whispers, her breath caressing his cheek, an ephemeral kiss. “But I’m so glad I’m here and not alone in Metropolis with no idea of what’s happening or if you’re okay.”

(She’s wrong, so wrong, but he doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t tell her he’s falling apart at the seams, crumbling under the pressure of mortality. Doesn’t beg her not to expose his weakness to the world he loves.)

Instead, he just leans close, close, close (but not quite touching), and breathes her in.

And hopes these moments will last him until he can see her once again.

* * *

Time blurs into a ceaseless montage of exhaustion and aches and breaths so heavy in his lungs he grows used to rubbing at his chest trying to break them up into small enough pieces he can cough them out. He never has enough time with Lois to make him feel rested or whole, and as the days blend together, he has fewer chances to visit her at all. It chafes at him, makes him snappish and distracted, but there’s no choice.

Nor’s here and causing trouble. Everywhere Clark goes, Nor has been there first, casting aspersions, seeding doubts, offering alternatives. Clark spends more time straightening out all the misinformation Nor leaves in his wake than he does actually moving his own plans forward. Zara takes to staying with the Council of Elders, trying to provide damage control for Nor’s own frequent visits. She starts looking strained, too, her mental walls fraying as Ching grows sterner and grimmer, but Clark doesn’t have time to help them.

The people need him. He can’t afford to sit down and talk with everyone he meets, like he used to do while traveling Earth, but even the few words he exchanges with the ones who are willing to do more than bow and agree with him are enough to make him long to help them.

They need him. They’ve lost everything but are trying to rebuild, and instead of helping them, the nobility are trapped in a succession war. Clark starts out listening to Zara and Ching, trying to focus on Nor and the long-term effects, but soon that all falls away. He can’t stop thinking about the eyes of the people he meets, gaunt and hollow and resigned. Afraid to hope but wanting desperately to have something to believe in. Hungry for change and looking for faith and convinced all along that grim survival is all that is left to them.

Clark throws himself into traveling farther, meeting more people, instigating more changes, small ones for now, but they will grow and snowball. Already, the first yields are coming in from his suggested harvests, a promising return that has bought him at least some time and faith.

“I’ll do what I can,” he says, over and over again, as little by little, more people begin to come to him with their needs.

It’s a meager promise, but it’s the only honest one he can give, and sleep falls away to make sure he keeps it, exhaustion settles in like an old friend, close and presumptive, and Clark ignores the aches and pains in this ordinary body he isn’t used to.

(He’s weak, so weak, when everyone here is fighting and _trying_ and not stopping, so he powers on, inspired by their own example.)

It scares him, occasionally, when he stops long enough to realize just how long it’s been since he’s seen Lois, but inevitably, there will be another emergency, another meeting with Zara to discuss how much more support Nor has garnered, another distraction that will keep him on New Krypton longer.

The stars are bright, especially vivid in a dusky sky, and Clark often looks up at them and rubs at his chest (at the breaths walling up his throat and the ring hanging there beside a bit of Earthen soil) before he turns his eyes back to the ground and takes up his burden once more.

It’s a harsh existence, lonely and cold and so much longer than he thought it would be, but it sustains him. It gives him purpose.

(It keeps him too busy to realize just how alone he is now and how much he misses his old life, so far away it seems nothing more than a dream.)

* * *

“I worry about you,” Lois says once, her eyes on the papers in front of her, as if she’s trying not to let him know just how serious she is. “You look thin, Clark, and tired. What do Zara and Ching say about that cough of yours?”

“I’m not invulnerable anymore,” he tells her, careful to smile while he says it, so she’ll hear that he isn’t worried (he is, though; this cough _hurts_ , but then, he’s not used to pain, so maybe it’s not really as bad as all that). “And even though they gave me some inoculations before we arrived, I was bound to get sick eventually.”

“You’ve been coughing for weeks,” she says before she looks up and gives him a smile (he hasn’t forgotten so much that he can’t tell it’s forced). “Anyway, if they say it’s fine, I guess… What has Nor done now?”

“More of the same.” He knows she wants to hear everything, is desperate for news and a way to help, but he spends his endless days doing nothing _but_ worrying about Nor. Here, for just a little while, he wants to think about something else. “Lois,” he says, “do you remember any of Perry’s Elvis stories?”

Her brow wrinkles. “Some of them. Why?”

“I was just…trying to remember them. Jimmy even told one or two. I guess the Chief was rubbing off on him.”

“Lots of things on New Krypton remind you of the Rock and Roll King?” Lois asks, a glint of humor in her eyes.

“No.” He actually chuckles (it sounds dusty, makes him wonder just how long it’s been since he last laughed). “I just…I’m afraid I’ll forget it all.”

(Even now, he can’t quite remember the English words he’s looking for, as if he has to strain past Kryptonian nouns and verbs for the right syllables, the strange sentence order.)

“I wouldn’t mind forgetting a few of those Elvis stories,” Lois says dryly.

“I know.” Clark shrugs uncomfortably. Zara wasn’t able to get away to accompany him this time, and Ching went to retrieve some food for them, so it’s actually just him and Lois. If only he didn’t feel like the air was filled with unsaid things between them. If only he hadn’t promised Zara that he’d be faithful.

“What is it?” Lois asks, moving to sit beside him on the bed.

“All my powers are gone,” he whispers to his hands. “I just…I don’t know if my photographic memory was part of that or not. What if I start forgetting everything, Lois? What if I—”

“I’ll remind you,” she says. When she hugs him, he falls forward into her, soaking in her warmth and hoping it will calm the cold chills that have become near-constant. “I won’t let you forget, Clark.”

“Remind me how we met,” he says into her neck, his lips playing against her skin (her shiver reverberates across his entire frame).

“Well, I was on the trail of a story, eager to get somewhere, and Perry interrupted to introduce me to some guy he was interviewing. How was I to know that guy would get a job there? Or last so long? Or,” her voice drops low, a murmur into his ear, “come to mean so much to me? Because you do, Clark—you mean everything to me. So don’t worry about me here, okay? Just do what you have to.”

“And then maybe you’ll actually take the time to shake my hand?” he teases, still caught up in his memory of that first time he saw her, felt the magnetic pull of her certainty and her intensity.

“Oh, I’ll do a lot more than shake your hand,” she says, and it’s a good thing Ching comes back, then, or Clark would have broken his promise.

But over dinner, Lois tells him more stories, her voice weaving a cocoon around him, a haven he takes back with him so that even when he is tired and beleaguered and out of his depth, he can hear her voice reminding him of everything he has to fight for.

* * *

When Nor finally makes his move, Clark is actually relieved. He’s tired and his bones ache and it’s gotten so hard to breathe. More, the problems of his people keep piling up so high that he feels as if they will crush him. It’s easier, in a way, to face Nor and finally have their long-delayed confrontation than to continue picking away at seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

“You’re under arrest,” Nor tells him, so gleeful that Clark can feel a bit of giddiness himself, tainted with Nor’s cruelty and pricking against his mental walls.

“On what charges?” Zara demands, all poise and power—until she, too, is taken into custody.

“For treason,” Nor says.

Clark sees Ching slipping away, disappearing to safety, and he’s relieved. (Lois will be taken care of; surely Ching will see to that, if nothing else.)

“The Council of Elders will—”

“Will what?” Jenn Mai steps out from Nor’s shadow, smirking and satisfied. Clark is buffeted by the strength of Zara’s outrage, her betrayal, but it doesn’t matter.

The grip on his arms tighten, and Clark lets himself sink a bit into their hold. He’s done what he can, after all. Made his suggestions and altered the bit they allowed him to, spoke to people and offered them even the hint of another way. Now, all that’s left is to stop Nor, and with Nor himself forcing the confrontation, this is it.

One way or another, this will all end.

(One way or another, he will not be forced to stay here for much longer.)

* * *

The trial is a blur. Because Zara is complicit in his crimes, Clark does his best to refute the charges and make a stand that can bear up against the power Nor and his bullied allies are giving to the trial. But he won’t lie ( _can’t_ lie, when there are so many lies already).

He _is_ loyal to Earth. He _does_ want to change things about the Kryptonian society. He _would_ rather be gone from this place.

It’s not treason that he’s committed, he knows, but it’s close enough. Close enough that Nor doesn’t need much more than witnesses scared into testifying that Lord Kal-El has spoken of Earth, referred to Earth, compared New Krypton to Earth; a few Elders affirming that Kal-El was indeed hidden away on Earth and only retrieved recently; and Zara’s own unwilling testimony that Clark almost didn’t accompany her back to their world.

Nor is terrifying. He’s brutal. He’s self-serving. But when it comes right down to it, he’s Kryptonian, and familiar, and an evil they know. If there is one thing Clark knows about people, it’s that they will always choose the familiar over the strange.

“Guilty,” Jenn Mai proclaims.

“Guilty,” the other Elders agree.

Tre sighs and shakes his head, something almost disillusioned in his eyes. “Guilty,” he says.

And it’s done.

Zara will be married to Nor (a terrible fate for her, he’d wish better, but she’s strong and smart and has allies of her own, has built up quiet support in these past months, and Clark thinks he would bet on her over Nor in the long run).

Clark will be put to death, his atoms scattered across the universe.

(And Lois, unmentioned, still secret and hidden, will be safe. Ching is with her; maybe he will be able to take her back to Earth.)

It’s not as much as he wanted to accomplish. It’s not the end he dreamed of.

(But it’s an _end_ , and he’s so tired, he cannot bring himself to care too much.)

Maybe he finally can let go, for real this time.

* * *

When they take him up to the ship, Clark begins to care a _lot_. He feels, at once, more awake, more aware, than he has in months. Why are they coming here? What could they want here? His mind is filled with possibilities, with images of Nor gleefully revealing that he knew about Lois all along, that before Clark is put to death, he must watch Lois killed too.

Zara wriggles closer until she can set her bound wrist against his. “Kal-El,” she whispers, “guard your mind or you’ll give away the very thing you seek to protect.”

With a great effort, Clark forces up mental walls, crams his thoughts back behind their wavering defense, calms his frantic heartbeat. His lungs have seized up and he begins coughing, almost retching in his attempt to breath in some air. Even here aboard the ship, where usually his breathing is a bit easier, he struggles for long minutes while Tre stares at him with what looks to be genuine worry.

“Weak,” Nor sneers. “And _this_ is what you thought could lead our people, Zara? I thought you a bit brighter than that.”

“When you’re the alternative, anything would look good,” Zara says with cool composure. “But, yes, I do believe that he is an impressive leader. It’s a shame your arrogance and selfishness will deprive New Krypton of its future.”

“Does he let you talk all the time?” Nor came close enough to casually slap her across the cheek. Ignoring Tre’s outburst and the gasps from the other Elders, oblivious to the lead in Clark’s surging blood as he fights his captors, Nor smiles down at Zara. “I think a gag will look very appealing on you.”

“Lor Nor, I must insist you show some respect!” Tre demands. “Lady Zara is—”

“To be my wife,” Nor says. “And I am your ruler now, so _you_ should consider showing some of that respect you care so much about.”

Despite the vote Tre cast against him, Clark feels bad for the Elder. The familiar evil is sometimes worse than the strange one.

“Nor,” he says, drawing the man’s attention. “You’re not actually ruler until I’m dead. Why are we up here?”

“I thought it fitting.” Nor cocks his head, diverted by this opportunity to gloat. “We could have torn your being to pieces and splatted them across the cosmos from the surface, too, but why give you the chance to become a martyr to the people watching? And why not use this ship you seem so strangely connected to as the means of destroying you?”

Tre fades away, safe for the moment, and Nor is once more intent on Clark, not on searching the ship or asking _why_ it’s so important to him. Once more, Clark lets himself relax. He closes his eyes against the pounding in his head, bolsters his mental walls, and lets himself think (in these, his final moments) of Lois.

This will hurt her. It will wound her deeply. Convincing her to go back to Earth without destroying Nor will be hard. But eventually, back with his parents and Perry and Jimmy and the Daily Planet and the people who need her clarion truths…she will heal. She will survive. She’ll live.

 _Please_ , he thinks, imagining the plea as a bird winging out from his mind toward Ching, wherever he is. _Please take Lois home. Keep her safe. Help her live._

They lead him to a room he’s never seen before, a room he doesn’t remember Lois mentioning when she talked about her wandering walks. There’s a man-shaped cage in the middle of the room. The Elders and guards spread out to face that cage while Nor pulls Zara up beside him. Clark is escorted to the cage. He remembers another cage, bigger but scarier, green and searing, keeping him from saving Lois from a fate worse than death. He catches a glimpse of Zara, bound for a similar fate with another monster, and wonders if maybe this was always his fate—to stand removed, caged and isolated, while the people he cares for are claimed by others more genetically suited but morally depraved.

 _I’m sorry_ , he tries to tell Zara. This isn’t what she wanted, what she left her people for, traveling through space on a wild goose chase on the whisper of a rumor of a lost El son. This isn’t what made her able to close her mind to Ching’s love and devotion as she bound herself to a man she knew would never love her. _I’m sorry_.

For an instant, her eyes tighter. There’s moisture there, pooling in a refraction of the room’s bright lights. He thinks she probably returns his apology to him, but he doesn’t need it. She loves her people. She wants the best for them. How could she _not_ have found him and asked him to return with her?

Maybe, in another world, another lifetime, he could have stood at her side and been the ruler-partner she and New Krypton need. (Maybe, but he doesn’t think so; he is not suited for this position. His soul is not shaped to be in love with anyone but the oh-so-human Lois Lane.)

They close the bars around him with a clang that rings like dynamite in his ears, resounds through his pounding head, reverberates through his aching bones. The guards are expressionless. Nor is triumphant. The Elders are wary, uncertain, betraying the beginnings of regret.

Too late.

There’s so much he should have told Lois. So many things he should have said, so many more stories he wanted to hear, so many moments they could have shared. He wasted so much time on being exhausted, on staying below when he should have been seeing her.

In an instant, Clark sees an entire lifetime laid out before him. A lifetime as Lois’s husband, at her side, investigating and writing and helping, buoyed up by her truth and her certainty and her love, and maybe they were from alien worlds, maybe there would never have been children, maybe there would have been sorrows he can’t fathom now, but they would have been together. _Should_ have been together.

He doesn’t think he could have chosen differently. Doesn’t think that once he heard of New Krypton, he ever could have decided not to come and do all he could for them. But oh, he wishes he had never heard of them. Wishes he’d had the chance to live that lifetime with Lois Lane.

 _Lois. Lois. Lois_.

The beloved heartbeat resounds. He can’t hear it, not really, not anymore, but he imagines that he can. Closes his eyes on the aliens before him and strains for the heart that made everything worthwhile.

“I love you, Lois,” he whispers under his breath, a secret revealed and covered up by the sound of Nor’s gloating.

And then there’s no more time at all.

His dry skin evaporates. His leaden blood is seared to nothing. His weak muscles disintegrate. His aching bones dissolve.

Scattered across the universe, belonging to nothing and no one, an eternal wanderer, an orphan doomed to never be found (by two kindly farmers, by a gruff editor with a heart of gold and a photographer with more loyalty than money, by a woman who accepted him without question and devoted herself to him without wavering).

Finally, for maybe the first time in his life, he has no choice but to let go. And even so, he cannot let go of everything. Not quite.

 _Lois_ …

* * *

Then his bones are remade, his muscles stretched back over them, his veins once more filled with life-giving liquid, his skin encapsulating pain and hope in equal measures.

He’s alive.

He’s still here.

Ching is standing in front of Lord Nor, Tre backing him up, Zara watching with a look of pride there on her features for anyone who knows how to read it. There’s noise, so much noise that it overwhelms him, but he can’t care about that.

Because in front of everything, just in front of him, barely waiting for the guards to open his cage, dressed in Kryptonian clothes, is Lois.

Lois Lane. Always the first to be where she shouldn’t, never able to turn away from anyone who needs her, and always, always able to find another way.

“Clark,” her lips mouth, though she carefully doesn’t say it out loud. (The sight of that name brings him to life in a way the rebuilding of his body didn’t.)

Then the doors are open and he’s falling forward, sagging into her. She catches him, bears him up, holds him upright with strength abundant.

Clark lets himself lean into her. Lets himself breathe deep of her scent and her presence. Lets himself savor the feel of her and the warmth of her.

He’s been destroyed and remade, but he won’t feel complete until it can be him and Lois again, like it used to be, like it should be.

“Lois,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Shh.” Her hand is a soft caress against the nape of his neck. “It’s okay, Clark. It’s okay, I’m going to save you.”

“You already did,” he tells her (and wishes she knew the truth of this statement, made true again and again and again).

Her arms tighten around him. For the first time in ages, he feels glad to be alive.

Clark closes his eyes, and lets everything else fall away.

* * *

“A fight.” His voice sounds dull as he repeats the words. “To the death.”

“You can do it,” Lois says immediately. “Ching says you can do it.”

Ching doesn’t look quite as certain as Lois implies, but he nonetheless nods. “You can, Kal-El. You’ve mastered the many moves of the drei. If you can bring yourself to absolute focus and make the ultimate move, then you _can_ beat Nor.”

“The ultimate move.” Clark lets his heavy head sag down, too tired to lift it. “You mean the _killing_ move. Because that’s how this ends: a death.”

“Yes,” Zara said succinctly. “There is no other way, Kal-El.”

“No. That’s not me. I’m not doing that.”

Zara moves to stand straight in front of him, so resolute and imposing that he has no choice to but to look up and meet her gaze. “Kal-El, this is how you save my people. I know you can do this. You must do this.”

“Zara.” Clark forces himself to his feet, makes his shoulders remain unbowed, ensures his eyes don’t leave hers. “I have given up so much for you and your people. My parents, my friends, my job. I’ve given up Superman and I’ve given up Clark. I’ve become Kal-El for you, and I don’t regret that choice. I would make that sacrifice for you and your people again. But this, _this_ is the one thing that I _cannot_ give up. I won’t kill him.”

“Then he will kill you,” she says steadily. “And he will marry me, and he will subjugate our people until there is nothing left. And then, since he knows about Earth and since he does not know how to fix the problems here, he will turn his eye to the Humans. Your insistence on his life…will cost billions.”

“Zara!” Lois snaps. Her hand is warm around his elbow. “What do you think you’re—”

“She’s right,” Ching says. “Nor cannot be stopped by any more political moves or held by mere walls. He will keep destroying everything in his sight until he is destroyed himself.”

“And if you will not fight him,” Zara says, “then you will be put to death and he will rule uncontested.”

“Give us a minute,” Lois says, and stares them down until they retreat to their side of the room (hard to think of it as the bridal chambers anymore, Clark thinks, when so much has happened).

“I can’t, Lois,” he says. “I’ve already lost so much of myself here, I can’t lose this too.”

“I know.” Lois swallows, soft and intent as she takes his hands. “But…if there really is no other way…maybe…”

“I can’t,” he says again, but this time, he hears the desperation in his own voice. Stripped naked and exposed in front of her.

He’s afraid (afraid that he _can_ kill Nor, that he _will_ kill Nor, that he _wants_ Nor dead; that he is, after all, just another Lex Luthor waiting to happen).

“Oh, Clark.” Lois frames his face in her hands. “You’ll stop him. I know you will. And if anyone can find a way to do it without killing him…it’s you. I believe in you. I trust you.”

(He wants to tell her she shouldn’t. He wants to tell her that he feels lost and disillusioned and helpless.)

(He says nothing, because why should she be disillusioned too?)

* * *

Training is a nightmare. They have two days to prepare for the duel, to be held at the foot of that imposing fortress on the surface, and Ching and Zara are intent on Clark using every minute to train with the drei. Already guilty at how he has repaid Lois and Ching’s desperate bid to save him, Clark does his best.

It’s not good enough.

The drei is heavy and awkward in his hands (transformed from a piece of his heritage to a murder weapon). His limbs are weighted and uncoordinated (the limbs of a brute, a savage, an executioner). And he can’t breathe. The physical struggle, the exertion, it makes the air catch in his chest and build up into a solid mass that won’t break up into smaller pieces. For every few moments of training, Clark spends an equal amount of time bent over wheezing, coughing, straining for breath.

“What’s wrong with him?” Lois demands as her hands massage his chest. “I thought this was just supposed to be some kind of Kryptonian cold. It was supposed to go away.”

“I don’t know,” Zara says, perplexed and worried. “I thought his immune system was simply adjusting to our bacteria. But this…it’s something different.”

“He’s been sick with a Kryptonian virus before,” Lois says as Ching heaves Clark up into a sitting position against the bulkhead. “Some criminals scraped it off the ship he came to Earth in and infected him with it. He almost died. My d—we had to use Kryptonite to weaken him to the point of death just to kill the virus. You don’t think this is the same thing, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Zara says.

“What kind of virus was it?” Ching asks abruptly. “Did he cough?”

“A little, in the beginning. It seemed like a regular fever until he collapsed. He…he started burning up and…eventually we couldn’t wake him up.”

“Was his skin tinged yellowish?”

“I think so.”

“Zara,” Ching says, “you remember when Jor-El and Lara were working on their space travel experiments? The fire fever that infected the eastern cities?”

There’s a sudden snap of tension above his head, probably Zara’s mental sign of understanding. “Surely not,” she says. “That fever died out.”

“The cold of space can preserve—”

“What are you talking about?” Lois demands.

Zara lets out a long, slow sigh. “If Clark was infected with the fire fever…if he did survive it…he might be experiencing a relapse. One of the inoculations we gave him could have reacted with the latent antibodies in his bloodstream and…mutated them.”

“But…last time, it didn’t take long at all for the fever to leave him unconscious. He’s had this for months.”

“His body’s better equipped to fight it this time.”

“But…he’ll get better, right? I mean, it might take a while, but eventually he’ll be okay. Right?”

The silence is so long Clark thinks he’d drift off if each breath didn’t feel like it came though a needle of fire in the center of his chest.

“I don’t know,” Zara finally says. “We never actually cured the fire fever. We contained it, we developed some basic antibiotics, and then…”

“And then what?” Lois says shrilly.

“And then Krypton was destroyed. When no one exhibited signs on New Krypton, we assumed the fever had died with our world.”

How ironic, Clark thinks, that it should have survived along with him, another refugee from a burning world, stowed away on his vessel and waiting for the right time to come back. To be saved from extinction.

“How is he going to fight Nor?” Ching finally asks. “The first time he has to stop to cough, Nor will destroy him.”

More silence.

Clark feels so bad for them. They went to Earth and retrieved a puppet with strings that tangled and twisted. They returned to New Krypton with a pawn who’s cracked and broken. And Lois…she wants a fiancé, a husband, a partner. Instead, she has only a dead man walking.

With an effort just to hide his groans, Clark rolls himself to his feet.

“I’m still here,” he tells them all. “And I’m alive. Now, Ching, ready for another go?”

It takes a long time for Ching to raise his drei again, but he does.

Unfortunately, it takes much less time for Clark to lose the match. But he keeps trying. Keeps fighting. Keeps learning.

There’s nothing else he can do.

* * *

The morning of their duel dawns. Tre arrives with a doctor at his heels. They inject Clark with something that’s supposed to keep him from coughing. Clark watches the needle puncture his skin with almost absurd fascination. He knows his powers are gone and that’s he’s normal now, he wakes up feeling mortal and sick every day, but somehow, just the sight of this tiny needle breaking through the skin that’s repelled bullets and bombs hammers it in anew.

Lois holds his other hand and stays quiet.

“It’ll be okay, Lois,” he tells her when Zara ushers everyone from the room to give him and Lois a last moment alone (a request granted for the man walking to his death).

“How do you feel?” she asks as if she didn’t hear him.

“Okay,” he says. It’s the truth, or at least a version of it. He can breathe, at least, even if the air sits like a miasma in his lungs. He’s coherent and more together than he’s felt in a while. It’s an improvement (or so he wants them both to believe).

“Clark.” Lois looks up at him, earnest and vibrant and achingly sincere. “I love you, all right? I love you no matter what. And I trust you more than anyone in the entire universe. So no matter what happens today, I know that you made the right decision. I don’t regret any of it and I don’t blame you. I love you ‘til the end of time.”

“And I love you,” he says (because how else do you respond to such a blatant carte blanche?). “I’ve loved you from the beginning and I’ll never stop loving you.”

“Then come back to me,” she pleads, and he thinks she probably told herself she wouldn’t say these words because they burst from her like prisoners at the first sign of freedom. “Don’t leave me, Clark.”

“I won’t leave you alone,” he promises (and trembles, because now he has no choice but to throw his all into this duel. Zara and Ching wanted a puppet, but they chose the wrong one because he’s already Lois’s, has been from their first meeting back in Perry’s office). “Lois,” he says, “tell me a story.”

Her face begins to crumple before she exerts her tremendous strength of will and smooths it out. “Do you want to know the first time I knew I loved you?” she asks. “The first day I looked at you with your glasses and your crazy tie and I thought, ‘I can’t live without Clark Kent.’”

“Yes,” he murmurs, leaning down into her, wrapping his trembling arms around her shaking form, relearning the contours of her body pressed against his. “Tell me that story.”

“It was the day we went to Smallville, and we danced, do you remember, Clark? We investigated, and I saw bits of who you really were, and then we danced and laughed and played games. And then you were in a lake, and Trask was holding a gun, and there was a gunshot. And I thought you were going to die right in front of me. But you didn’t. You were okay. Still there, making sure your glasses were straight, and that’s when I knew that I loved you.”

“All the way back then?”

Her breath staggers against his cheek. “The day I knew I couldn’t live without you…that was when I’d come to your apartment to tell you I wanted to take the next step with you. Do you remember that? And then you came over for breakfast and I think you wanted to tell me your Secret, right, because you were talking to a picture of me? But your parents were in trouble, and when I realized that _you_ were in trouble, that you were willing to protect me even if it cost you your parents…that’s when I knew that I would do anything for you. You’re the most important person in the universe to me, and maybe that’s selfish, but I don’t care. I’m human, I’m allowed to be selfish.”

“Not selfish.” He holds her tighter, hoping her words will be branded into his skin, imbuing him with strength so much greater than the fake health given him by that injection. “Or if it is, then I’m selfish too.”

“And the day I knew that nothing could ever tear us apart…” Lois rises on her tiptoes to hug him closer, burying her nose in his neck. “Do you remember the day when all my memories returned to me? When you took me back to the skies and were Clark even while a cape hung around your shoulders? That’s the day, when I remembered everything, and I looked at you, I knew that we would last forever. _We’re_ forever, Clark. No matter what happens, our love is stronger.”

“Here.” Clark reaches for the chain hanging from his neck, pulls it free of the blue collar, the red cape (Lois handed him the Suit this morning, and he didn’t ask her where she got it or if it was a good idea; just took it and let it remind him of home as he pulled it on), and unthreads the tiny vial of earth. “You keep this,” he tells Lois. “It’s a little bit of Smallville to remind you that I loved you that day when Trask tried to kill us. A little bit of home to remind you that _you’re_ my home, you and my parents. A little bit of Earth, to remind you of that sliver of sky where we kissed beneath the stars.”

Lois closes her hand over the soil, then tips her head back and leans up.

Clark made a promise, but he’s died and been remade a new man (and Zara left them alone just for this moment).

He bends and cups her cheek in a cold hand and kisses her. Melts against her. Imprints her on every cell of his body so that if he _is_ scattered across the universe, each cell will bear a tiny bit of her, the memory of this woman he would give up everything for.

She kisses him back, fiercely, desperately, a kiss filled with everything _but_ goodbye.

(She let him go once; she isn’t letting him go this time.)

Clark holds onto her until he can’t anymore.

(For all that he doesn’t know how to let go, he is far too used to the feeling of the things he most loves being ripped away from him.)

* * *

Nor is cold and confident. The onlookers are silent and guarded.

Clark feels the drei in his hand and feels sick.

The clash, when they come together, is so powerful that for an instant he thinks they have powers and this battle will take them soaring and tumbling through the streets of Metropolis, beneath towering skyscrapers and between huddled crowds of vulnerable people.

But no, this is New Krypton with its frigid shade and deadening atmosphere.

Their dreis tangle and part, meet and scrape against one another, clip and dodge and avert. Clark falls into the rhythm of these moves Ching has drilled him in endlessly for…how long has it been? He’s lost track of the days, somehow, forgotten just how many weeks have passed since he was hugged by his parents and forgiven by the people of Earth for leaving them.

Not that it matters. All that matters is Lois, above him, watching the duel on a viewscreen set up for her by Ching. And the people, too, surrounding them and watching their fate be decided before them—not by intellect or reason or what’s best for them, but by brute force. By the ability to kill before being killed.

What a strange universe they live in, he thinks.

“Only one of us is walking away from here,” Nor taunts, “and it won’t be you.”

Clark remains silent, conserving his strength. Or that’s what he tells himself anyway.

But he knows the truth, doesn’t he?

He’s not sizing up his opponent. Not focusing on the fight. Not strategizing his next move or anything else he tells himself to make himself feel better.

He’s just trying to decide, caught between moments.

To die?

Or to kill?

But his cape swirls around his ankles, bright and garish against the dark stones, a reminder of better things. Of hope and ideals and a world _not_ determined by blood.

He’s Superman. Superman doesn’t kill. Superman doesn’t save people by slaughtering others. There’s a time to take a life to save others, he knows that, has worked side by side with soldiers and police, but he’s _Superman_ , a figure and an icon and a symbol of better ways.

He’s Clark Kent. Clark talks and empathizes and investigates. He tries to make sure the guilty parties are delivered to justice, but he doesn’t enforce that justice himself.

He’s Kal-El. A lord, yes, ruler and leader and maybe even savior for a few here and there, but he’s a diplomat above all, not a killer.

All this time, he thought he lost himself, but he hasn’t. Clark or Superman or Kal-El, he’s still the same man (the man Lois loves).

 _I believe in you_ , Lois said. _I trust you. I love you._

_I need you._

Clark wields the drei in his hand as surely as he once did a pen. Superman presses forward, herding Nor against a boulder just as he’s done to other villains countless times. Kal-El knocks aside Nor’s drei and holds his own pressed against the man’s throat, ready to dispense justice.

“Yield,” he says. “Yield now, and I’ll let you live.”

Nor’s eyes narrow and tighten. “You really don’t know our ways. This is a duel to the death, Kal-El, and there’s only one way out of here.”

“No, there isn’t.” Clark presses the drei tighter against Nor’s throat. “New Krypton has options, possibilities, ones that don’t include death or starvation or oppression.” He raises his voice, dares to look away from Nor to the people watching. “You have a new world here, a planet full of new possibilities. You can be anything you want to be here, do anything you can dream—all you have to do is decide that you want it. You don’t have to be trapped in the confines of the past. You can make your own choices, decide your own fate.”

And Clark drops his drei. Steps back. Holds out his hands.

“Nor’s right. I’m not from here. I wasn’t raised as a Kryptonian. I have another people, another world, that I love. But I am Kryptonian, with blood just the same as yours. It’s not royal or noble or destined for rule. But it’s red and warm and I have a heart that beats for justice. For hope. For truth. If you want to serve Nor, to bow before his dictatorship and remain steeped in the ways that have led you here to a fate that has so little hope…then that’s your choice. But you have others. You can choose to be more, to be _different_ , to be better.”

He meets Zara’s eyes, Ching’s, Tre’s, people he knows scattered throughout the crowd.

“I can kill Nor, but that won’t change anything. Nor can kill me, but that won’t change much for you. The only thing that offers you something different, something better, is if you decide, right here and now, to reach for a better future. A brighter hope. A fate that lets _you_ be the deciders of your own—”

Nor lunges for him. Clark folds beneath his weight, something dark and bitter cracking from the miasma inside him, something lodging itself in his throat so that he’s choking, gasping, suffocating. There’s pain locked inside him, sharper pain on his jaw, his ribs, his legs. Nor’s there, he’s aware of him peripherally, but more immediately, more pressing, is the earthquake shaking his lungs and heart and throat until he’s dizzy and his sight is bursting with bright sparks.

Then there’s a sudden explosion, a concussion of pressure and force that sends Nor tumbling away, the center of his chest glowing. Ching stands over Clark, a drei in his hand, his face expressionless, his stance unwavering.

“Kal-El.” Tre’s there with a hand out to help ease him up a bit. And Zara, standing behind him, at Ching’s side, daring anyone to attack him in retribution.

Talking. Words spiraling around him until he thinks he can see them as streamers of colors and noise. Tre’s talking fast, Zara’s calm and speaking to the crowds, Ching stalwart as ever at her side.

Clark looks past them all, up toward the slate-gray sky and the stars above that. To the ship hanging there in perpetual orbit, peeling past the bulkheads and searing through the airlocks to reach the room where Lois stands, probably looking back at him in the viewscreen.

“Lois,” he whispers out through gasps.

He promised he wouldn’t leave her.

(Sometimes, even Superman lies.)

* * *

Later, Lois will tell him that Zara ordered him taken to the ship with the excuse that lighter gravity would help him breathe. She’ll tell him how Tre refused to leave his side and insisted on the best doctors coming to look him over. She’ll say that the old man was completely swayed by Clark’s words.

Later, Clark will learn that Ching killed Nor for him (a death, but Clark doesn’t care, because Ching is Kryptonian and a bodyguard, a soldier, someone there to protect and save life; he’s a Kryptonian who made his own choice for a better future; and maybe there’s some element of relief in Clark’s acquiescence, but either way, he’s not exactly sorry that Nor’s gone). That Zara stood to defend Ching’s choice. That the people made their own choice then, one backing Zara and Ching, the first noble and commoner partnership on their new world.

Later, Lois will speak of people praying for Lord Kal-El’s health and recovery. He will learn that Zara let Tre bring doctor after doctor until they convinced the Elder there was nothing to be done for him. Then she sent Tre back to New Krypton and she sent the ship back to Earth.

“We only had one chance,” Lois will tell him (face stiff with affected strength, with concealed fear). “Last time, the Kryptonite killed the virus. This time, only your superpowers could make you strong enough to combat the fever.”

Later, she will tell him stories of their travels through space while far behind them, Zara told the people of New Krypton that Lord Kal-El had died (the last gift she had to give him, the dissolution of their marriage and the return to Earth and this shield of his death to prevent anyone from ever seeking him out again). She will tell him stories of worlds they passed and nebulae they parted and all of it meaningless because her attention was solely on him. She will tell him that there were whole minutes he didn’t breathe at all and hours where all he did was cough (she will tell him, and her whole body shakes with the memory until Clark wraps her close to him and lets his even breaths steady her frame).

She will tell him that when they entered the solar system, when they opened the bulkheads to let in the sunlight, he finally started breathing again. She will describe the way he gradually grew stronger and healthier until he woke up and looked at her and said her name. Later, she will tell him that that’s the moment when she knew everything was going to be okay.

Later.

There is a later now. A future. A future he _wants_.

A marriage to look forward to. A reunion with his parents and his friends. A world that’s warm and bright and has (for all its darkness and its Lex Luthors and its disasters) so much potential.

“Tell me a story,” he asks Lois when the globe-ship deposits them into the air far above the spreading quilt of Earth beneath them. He’s wearing Clark’s suit, Superman hidden beneath, ready and waiting to be needed.

“What story?” she asks as the yellow sun bathes them in its rays. His powers surge within him, reborn and radiant and so familiar that it almost breaks him (he thought he would never feel this again, flight and strength and Lois in his arms with her own draped around his neck).

“Any story,” he says. “Every story. Tell me what our life is going to be like.”

“Good,” she replies. “It will be so good, Clark, just like you.”

“And beautiful, like you.”

“And happy, like us.”

“And forever.”

“Tell me a story, Clark,” she says now as her mouth draws nearer and nearer his. As his arms tighten and bring her closer. As the vial of earth slips from her fingers to fall back to the soil where it belongs. “Tell me about how we’ll be married and win a Pulitzer.”

“Maybe instead of telling you the story, I’ll show it to you.” With one arm wrapped around her waist, Clark uses the other to draw the chain over his neck and pull out the ring he’s clung to so tightly and so long. To the hope of it while he wandered the world alone. To the dream of it while he fell deeper and deeper in love with Lois Lane. To the reality of it as she was stolen away and forgot it. To the form of it as she remained a step away, forever out of reach while a world rested on his shoulders.

And now, finally, here in the light of a yellow sun, above the reaches of a farm where his parents are waiting for his return, Clark lets go (lets the ring rest on her finger and the hope reside in his heart).

Lois wraps her arms around him in return (she lets go when he cannot; he lets go when she needs him to; they are a team, partners in every sense of the word) and trusts herself to his loose, enduring hold. Her heartbeat is loud and strong and enduring in his ears.

“Our story,” she says.

“Forever,” he says again.

And kisses her.

(And this time, he knows, there will always be another kiss.)

 

The End


End file.
